


Where Nature Meets Nurture

by Castiel_Left_His_Mark_On_Me



Series: Destiel Feels [17]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst and Humor, Canonical Character Death, Destiel - Freeform, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Heartache, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Mystery, Nature Magic, POV Dean Winchester, Suicidal Thoughts, Whimsy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2018-11-15 09:50:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11228484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castiel_Left_His_Mark_On_Me/pseuds/Castiel_Left_His_Mark_On_Me
Summary: The world seems intent on taking away everything that has ever meant something to him. He tries to be strong, he tries to keep going-- but when it finally feels like there is absolutely nothing left to live for, Castiel-- a strange being with the power to control nature appears and shows Dean what it means to be alive.





	1. Memories

* * *

 

* * *

 

“Who are you?”

“I am Castiel.”

“ _Okay_ … scratch that. _What_ are you?”

The being continues to stretch its hands towards the sky, using streams of rain like lassos to pull the clouds over their heads. It smiles. “Defining what I am is not important, as long _as_ I am and always will be _,_ then the world can continue to grow.”

Beneath his jacket, Dean is shaking. He’s not sure if it’s from fear or from the cold or from the confusion of everything that’s going on, but he can’t still himself, and that is making him angry. “ _Look_ , I don’t know how I—”

“Do not worry, Dean. If I see you again, I will explain all of this. For now, you must go—the worst of the storm is on its way.” The being then turns, shoving a cluster of rain from one hand, freeing it, soon grabbing at the coming downpour with open arms and heaving backwards with all its might.

Thunder crashes—lightning cracks.

A wall of sparking clouds tumbles down around them, and Dean shields his eyes; and when he opens them again—the world is sunny.

“What the hell?” he whispers, clamoring upright from the backseat of the impala. “ _What?_ ” he hisses a little louder, still feeling the rain water on the tips of his fingers, but everything else is dry. The sky is blue. The road stretches dustily ahead of him, and he is utterly and completely _alone_.

Just like always.

The nightmare, _if that’s what it was_ —was different than the the ones he normally has, because this time, he didn’t wake up crying. He didn’t wake up screaming out for Sam, or for his mom, his dad, for _anyone_ to help as the flames licked the soles of his shoes. _This_ nightmare felt as real as any of them; but unlike the others, this one _couldn’t_ be real.

The flames are memories.

His little brother’s dying cries are memories.

The sight of his childhood home burning to the ground with everything and everyone he’s ever loved inside, _that_ was just a memory.

But a strange man— _thing_ , standing in the middle of a field, commanding the wind and rain with nothing but his bare hands … that all had to be a dream.

Dean must’ve read something like that somewhere. Maybe in one of the books from way back when in the orphanage—or between the covers of some two dollar magazine in an auto shop’s waiting room. It was probably some random, nonsensical tale that’s been locked away for years in the recesses of his mind. Lord knows, _he's_ not creative enough to come up with something like _that._

As he stretches out his arms and shakes his head to wake up— Dean tries to figure out exactly where he is, and how the hell he got here.

The last thing he remembers from the night before was stopping for gas. He was just standing there waiting for the pump to click, yawning and dreading the drive ahead— but then everything got foggy ... _quite literally_.  A thick, pale fog began billowing in around the gas station like a flood. Soon, it was hard for Dean to even see his own feet below him; but after that, he can't recall a thing.

"When did I get back in the car?" he asks himself quietly, before slipping out of the rear seat and around to the front. Once there, he looks around the cab, as if it'll give him some sort of clue to finding those missing hours; but there's nothing there to help him. Dean eventually lets out a sigh, slumping behind the wheel while rubbing his eyes. He thinks back on the strange dream. He thinks of the storm and of the creature  willing it across the night, and he thinks about the name that the creature called itself. "Cas-tiel" Dean mouths it, slowly, carefully, like he'll be punished if he gets it wrong. " _Castiel_ " he says again with more conviction. What a strange name for his subconscious to come up with! He's almost certain he's never heard _that_ name before, but there it is, on the tip of his tongue—embedded in his memory, filling the mouth of some type of _superman_ , and putting a name to a face that Dean, for some reason, can't even really recall now. He remembers everything else, the clouds, the thunder, the fluidity in which Castiel moved, but when it comes to describing the _being itself,_ Dean finds that he can't. The only thing he knows for certain is that its eyes were blue.

As blue as lightning.

With one last shake and a yawn, Dean gives up on trying to map out the specifics. He was exhausted last night. He probably just got back into his car at the gas station and drove until he couldn't drive anymore. Dean was most likely on autopilot, and it wouldn't be the first time he couldn't remember a drive. And overall, he _should be_ thinking about just how lucky he is that he got as far as he did without any apparent incident. He's safe—his baby is safe. That's about all he can ask for at this point.

The sign up ahead says "Nebraska state line, 48 miles" so Dean puts the keys in the ignition and starts his baby up, knowing that he'll have plenty of time to ponder things as he goes along, but for now— he needs to get back on the road.

It was just a dream ... nothing to get so hung up on.

_But it felt so real._

Castiel … _he_ felt real.

***

With Uncle Bobby’s house only a few hours away, Dean decides to pull off at the next place he finds to grab a bite to eat. Ever since his odd awakening this morning, he’s been driving nonstop; he didn't want to miss a thing. He was hyper-focused on every hole in the road and every road sign that he passed, committing it all to memory. Making sure he new the difference ... between what was real, and whatever happened the night before.

This road trip is important—most of his trips are but this one is more so. He wasn’t planning on seeing Bobby again so soon, but he wants to be around family right now, and that old man is as close as he’ll ever get. When he was a child, he’d spend his summers at Bobby’s salvage yard, playing between the junk piles with his brother, Sam while learning how to fix up old cars with their dad. John, Dean's dad, had known Bobby for what seemed like forever, and when John got into auto part sales, he and Bobby would meet up two or three times a year to do business. At one point, John brought the boys with him, and the two ended up loving it so much that it became a regular family outing.

Going to Bobby's was better than Disneyland in Dean’s opinion; but after the fire, he was shipped off by social services and didn’t get to see Bobby again for a few years. Not for a lack of trying though— _on both ends_. Bobby fought countless legal battles, trying to gain custody of Dean. He wanted to adopt him and call him his own, but the state of Kansas just wouldn’t rule him to be a fit parent for a nine year old boy. Bobby Singer was already up there in age, and lived in a rundown shack that just happened to be surrounded by miles and miles of scrap metal. His income wasn’t steady, he wasn’t in a committed relationship, and it didn’t matter how much he loved the boy, the government just didn’t see that as enough. So Dean bounced between foster homes and schools—some okay, some downright terrifying, until he got old enough to start cheating the system. When he could, he’d run off and visit Bobby— but the cops would always find him and bring him back so that whatever foster parent he happened to be staying with at the time could keep depositing the support checks. When he turned sixteen however, Dean actually came back on his own … this time, in his dad’s old impala. Bobby had taken it after the fire. Apparently, it was always intended to go to Dean—John had told Bobby that years and years before; he wanted it to stay in the family. “That car is just as much a Winchester as any of us”, his old man used to say; so when Dean finally got his license, Bobby was finally able to give him John’s last gift; and his dad’s prized car meant _freedom_. It meant hope. It meant that maybe, possibly ... he wouldn’t constantly feel so alone.

_The last of the Winchesters._

 

Dean sighs as he runs his fingers across the impala’s dash. She’s running hot—she needs some rest and so does he. It’s been a long drive from Albuquerque and he doesn’t think either of them have really had any peace since doing this last job.

His previous "client" was a real firecracker for being nearly eighty three years old. He hopes that he still has that much spunk by then ... if he makes it that long. " _Good ol' Mrs. Stepowitz_ …" Dean mutters with smile, turning onto a dusty, pot holed driveway with a sign that says "Food" dangling haphazardly above it.

Dean considers himself an entrepreneur of sorts. He has built up a little business and not to mention, a name for himself among certain, _affluent_ crowds. When it comes to charm and schmoozing, he has a real knack … as long as he can make a quick, clean break before anyone finds out he’s full of shit.

Bobby doesn’t approve of Dean’s creative means for income, but it’s not like he’s doing anything _illegal_ , so really—what’s the harm? Old ladies love him; and if those old ladies just so happen to have a crap ton of money and want to overpay Dean for various “services”, then so be it. Everything stays classy. _Yeah_ , he may do some things _shirtless_ every now and then, flex a bit when he knows someone is watching, wear some jeans that are just a little too tight and too thin to hide what’s underneath, but none of that is really _wrong_.

So, _what’s the big deal?_

"It's not honest work" the old man always complains, and Dean can't really argue with that; but the money is more than what he could ever make doing random construction gigs, so Bobby will just have to learn to deal with it.

But that saying about old dogs might be true _,_ because the last time Dean saw the man, Bobby didn't waste a moment in guilting him about his next venture. Dean had visited on his way down to New Mexico to meet up with Mrs. Stepowitz—who had insisted that he would be the perfect man to help her clean up her estate in order to sell. They had met in an airport bar— that's where Dean finds most of his clientele; but when she offered to buy him a plane ticket to Albuquerque, Dean refused. Flying was never his thing, and he knew he could stop in to see his uncle on the way down south if he drove. But he didn't stay at Bobby's very long, only a couple of hours so they could catch up and have a beer or two. Yet, even with all the bitching, the short visit only made Dean miss Bobby more. It made him miss having someone familiar to talk to—someone he didn’t have to constantly charm or play. _Sure_ , Bobby’s place is old and dirty and about ready to fall apart—nothing like the mansions that Dean occasionally stays in; but it's far better than the backseat of his car, and more importantly: _it feels like a home_. He needs that right now, because with the loneliness comes the nightmares, and the nightmares have been non-stop lately, so it’s been harder and harder to shake off that ache that makes getting by, _impossible_.

“Just a few nights at Bobby’s” Dean mutters to himself as he pulls into the parking lot of a diner off highway 183. “That’ll do it.”

 

The small restaurant looks run down and older than death, but the smells coming from its doors aren’t half bad. Dean detects a whiff of bacon and fried cheese, also—what could possibly be onion rings … _he’s sold!_

The impala’s engine hisses and clicks as he shuts her down, and her door creaks sorely when he pops it open to step outside.

“I know, girl Not much longer, okay?” he whispers to her, patting her roof as he swings the door closed behind him. With a soft smile, he then turns away, picking up speed as his stomach starts to rumble. A tiny bell chimes when he enters the diner, and soon, a rotund, sweet faced woman is waving him over to a stool pressed up against the counter.

“Come over here, boy. Sit down—you look like you’re about to keel over!”

Dean smiles, already falling in love with this place. “Yes, ma’am!”

The woman chuckles before nodding approvingly. “ _Manners_. Thank the lord! Most of the men that come in here just spit their orders at me like I was born behind this counter to serve ‘em!”

“Well that ain’t right” Dean grumbles, sitting himself down while picking up a menu. “A lady as beautiful as _you_ should be waited on hand and foot, not the other way around.” Dean peeks back over the vinyl rimmed menu and winks at the woman, who promptly grabs the thing from his hands and thwaps him on the head with it.

“I’m old enough to be your grandmother, boy! Stop actin’ a fool and tell me what you want!”

Dean would protest, but he’s still cowering from the first attack and doesn’t want to incite another. With palms flat and in obvious surrender, he straightens out again and takes the menu back. “Uh … cheeseburger, please. Bacon too … extra if you got it.”

The old woman smirks before taking her leave, muttering something under her breath about “ignorant child” and “what’s wrong with him.”

Dean chuckles as he watches her disappear into the kitchen. He should’ve known better than to keep up his act in a place like _this_. The types of people that come here, that work here—that live here, they’re all no-nonsense. _Hell_ , his dad would feel right at home in this place! Come to think of it, there’s a good chance his dad has been to this place before. The man used to drive all up and down this route making sales. He probably knew every bar and diner by name _and_ by specialty. And there's something about that thought makes Dean feel warm inside, all the way to the tips of his toes, so he decides that when the waitress comes back—he’s going to do what he doesn’t do very often: he’s going to chat with her _just because_. No games. No ulterior motives. Just talk about nothing _,_ and _enjoy_ it.

After all, he needs a rest; and by the sounds of it, this old woman needs someone to be kind to her for once.

_Dean can do that._

“I’m getting Hank to put a hog’s-worth of bacon on that thing for ya. You may need an ambulance by the end of it, but you’ll enjoy every bite!”

Dean beams when the woman comes back out of the kitchen, talking at the top of her lungs because it’s just Dean who’s out here to hear her. “I appreciate that— _I do_. Thank you.”

The woman smiles. “You’re very welcome. What’s your name, son?”

“Dean Winchester. _Yours?_ ”

The woman’s smile quickly fades, and she seems almost shocked that Dean had asked. “Oh, well … I’m Lynn, but folks around here call me Litty. No earthly idea why” she laughs, shrugging before busying herself with wiping off the far end of the counter.

Dean watches her a moment, noticing how her cheeks tinge with the attention. “Well, which do you prefer? Lynn, or Litty?”

She stops cleaning and turns to look at him curiously. “Um, _Lynn_ … I like to be called Lynn.”

“Lynn it is then. How long have you been working here, Lynn?”

The woman’s curious glare intensifies. “You’re just _full_ of questions, ain’t ya?”

Dean shrugs, but he keeps his ears perked for her answer.

The woman can only sigh. “ _Hm_ —well, let’s see. I reckon it’s been nearly forty six years now. _Criminy!_ Most of my life has been spent behind this counter!”

“Well, if you enjoy it …” Dean begins, but he stops just as Lynn shakes her head.

“Not really about _enjoin’_ as much as it is about _survivin’._ ”

Something about the tone in the woman’s voice breaks Dean’s heart. “If that’s the case … then what would you be doing if you didn’t have to be here?”

With that, Lynn seems to deflate, eventually tossing the rag down into a bucket on the floor. “Lord, son! _I don’t know!_ What are you, some type of psychiatrist or somethin’?”

Dean laughs. “Oh, hell no! I’m the type of guy who _causes_ problems for people—I don’t fix ‘em.”

That makes Lynn laugh too. “Well, you’re certainly causin’ problems for _me_ … makin’ me miss spots!” She soon grabs a clean rag from the shelf beneath the counter and starts wiping it down again.

“Sorry—I've just been driving most of the day, and you’re the first nice person I’ve spoken to in a while.”

Now Lynn is _really_ laughing. “Nice? I just smacked you with a menu! Don't you remember, boy!”

“I deserved it!” Dean yelps. “It was nice of you to set me straight!”

And _that_ makes the old woman give up on cleaning completely, quickly walking over to lean against the counter in front of Dean. “So … you’re just _a talker_ then?”

Dean shrugs. “Not usually … not unless it’s gonna be useful for me to open my big mouth.” He huffs and looks around the small, empty diner, feeling oddly safe here, and he’s glad for it. “But like I said … you’re nice, and that’s kinda rare these days.”

Lynn smiles sweetly but rolls her eyes at him all the same. “Well, you’re nice too I suppose.”

After a few more chuckles, they sit in silence a moment, listening to the grill sizzle from the kitchen.

“So—” Lynn finally sips, wondering at Dean with deep, brown eyes, “What are you doing driving through here? Road trip? Sightseein’?”

Dean shakes his head as he watches her turn around to grab a coffee mug before spinning back and setting it down in front of him. “No, I’m headed to South Dakota to see my uncle.”

“You two close?”

Dean’s mouth twitches as he tries to find the right words. “ _Yeah_ —you could say that. I mean ... _he’s_ the only family I got, but I don’t see him as much as I’d like to.”

Lynn nods as she reaches for a pot of coffee to pour some for Dean. “Why’s that? Work keepin’ you away?”

Dean shrugs before taking a sip. “Not really … I don’t have a nine to five job or anything like that.”

“Then why don’t you see him more? Family’s important, boy. You never know when they’ll be gone so you got to cherish the time you have.”

It's sudden and harsh, and if he hadn't been so swamped with memories lately, he probably would've been able to hold it together, but his eyes immediately burn with her words, and Dean has to blink a few times and look away to stop it, hoping that the old woman doesn’t notice his change of face. “Yeah, yeah—can’t argue there” he mumbles pathetically.

“Sorry” Lynn sighs once silence falls between them again, obviously catching Dean’s switch in demeanor despite his efforts. “You just said that he’s the only family you got and here I am, makin’ ya feel guilty about not seein’ him much.”

“It’s fine” Dean mutters, drinking some more of his coffee to try and act nonchalant.

“No— _it ain’t_. I know a thing or two about loss, so I should be more sensitive.”

Dean peeks over at the woman who is now doing her own acrobatics to avoid eye contact, but he's just grateful to have a way to get the attention back off of him. “Yeah? Who did you lose?”

Lynn begins fiddling with the salt and pepper shakers, rearranging them needlessly around the napkin dispenser. “Well … _uh_ ….”

Dean quickly sets down his mug before lifting his hand and stopping her from saying anything else. “No—sorry, I shouldn’t pry.”

The woman sighs while shaking her head again. “It’s alright. It ain't no secret.” Then, she takes a deep breath before starting to explain. “I lost my husband and my daughter a long, long time ago. _Car accident._ Someone ran the light and crashed into my husband’s truck.”

Dean slumps in his seat. “I’m sorry—that’s awful.”

Lynn quickly wipes at her eyes before nodding and straightening out her apron. “Yes, well—I get by with believin’ I’ll see ‘em again someday.”

Dean nods. “I’m sure that you will.”

After another beat, she catches Dean’s gaze with a smile. “And—what about _you_ , son? You said that all you got is your uncle ... what happened to the rest of your family?”

He fidgets a little and drops his focus to his hands wrapping around his coffee mug, flinching when Lynn dangles the pot over it for a refill. “ _Um_ … well …" He doesn't like to talk about them. It's bad enough that he can't stop thinking about them and what happened, but talking just brings it all back. Every detail. Every feeling. There's no denying it happened if he says it out loud.

"Must be bad if it's this hard for ya to answer" Lynn says worriedly.

Dean looks over his shoulder at the door, partly wanting to walk out and forget this conversation ever started, but this old woman has already had too many people be rude to her, and Dean has too much pride to become another one. With a bated breath, he chokes on the words. "There was a fire—when I was nine.”

“ _Oh lord_ ” Lynn gasps, setting down the pot to put her hand over her mouth.

“There was a bad storm ...” Dean continues on, memories pulling him back like a riptide, straight into the crashing suffocation of that night. “The lightning was non-stop." The words clump up in his mouth, seeming like they're throwing elbows and punches, just trying to get out in front of one another. "I used to love those types of storms. I always wanted to watch them, but my mom would tell me and my brother to keep away from the windows.” Dean closes his eyes a moment, feeling his chest tighten as he remembers the sounds of his mother’s voice calling out to him in the dark. “That night—I snuck out to the back yard. I wanted to watch the storm from a better spot, so I climbed into an oak tree that was by the fence and I just stared at the sky." Tears build in his eyes, but there's no stopping them now. Dean knows that. "It was so loud— I thought it was exciting, but then the lightning struck the house. It was blinding. Another bolt hit the tree after that, but I don’t remember it. All I remember then was waking up on the ground and smelling smoke. My entire house was on fire … I could hear—” Dean’s voice cracks as Sam's pained cries slash through his mind with glass-like clarity, “I could hear my little brother screaming.”

Lynn reaches out and touches Dean’s wrist, trying to comfort him, but the contact only succeeds in making Dean break down even more.

“I'm sorry” he finally huffs, embarrassed that he's losing it right, in front of this woman— a perfect stranger.

"Sweetheart, don't apologize. It's alright."

"No, it's—"

“ _Order up!_ ” a call rings out from the back, making Dean instantly clamp shut and cower behind his own hands.

Lynn’s own tears rim her eyes, but she wipes them away before wheeling around and grabbing the burger from the pass-through window. She quickly shoos the cook away as he peeks through the opening at the two of them. “Go on, Hank! Make up that cherry pie … we’re gonna need it.”

The greasy looking man scrunches up his face but eventually nods, turning back towards the kitchen before stepping out of sight.

Dean relaxes once he knows the man is gone.

“Sorry ‘bout that, hun” Lynn whispers, pulling up in front of Dean once more so she can place the plate in front of him.

Dean clears his throat and swipes his eyes with the back of his hand. “No, no—it’s fine. I’m blubbering. It was good timing, actually. I need to put something in my mouth so I can stop flappin’ it.”

Lynn smiles at him again, but this time it’s sad—almost disappointed, and Dean instantly feels bad.

The room falls quiet once more and it makes everything seem stressed and tired, leaving the two to search for ways to break the tension; and Lynn is the first to come up with something.

“You asked me earlier …” the woman starts, after Dean had taken a few bites of his meal, “where I’d be if I wasn’t _here_.”

He looks up at her, chewing slowly as he nods. “Yeah?” he mumbles around the lump in his throat, as well as a mouthful of meat and bread.

Lynn’s eyes soon glaze over as she looks off into nothing. “I don’t have an exact place I wanna go—if that makes sense? I just know I’d want there to be flowers, lots and lots of flowers.” The woman’s lip trembles on thoughts that Dean can’t read. “My husband … he’d always bring me flowers, all different kinds. He’d never buy ‘em. They were wild, always with dirty roots stickin’ out but they’d last longer that way anyway. He made deliveries and when he’d come home, there would always be new flowers waiting for me on the table. I never knew where he got ‘em, but they were always unique and beautiful. Then when my daughter was born, we named her Primrose, after the flower.”

Dean watches her face fall as her eyes clear back into focus.

“When they died—it seemed like I never saw any flowers anymore. Nothing but weeds grow ‘round here, so if I could be anywhere else … I’d just want there to be flowers.”

Dean had stopped eating, taking a moment to just stare at Lynn instead. Her neat bun sat poised atop her head, grey hairs woven in between the dark strands like braids. Her skin was soft, dark and rippled, like the surface of his coffee, but something about the way the afternoon light caught her between the counter and the dust, she looked young. She looked beautiful—and she looked broken. Like a bloom with only half its pedals.

“Well …” Lynn finally breathes, breaking the sad moment with a huff, “how’s that burger tastin’? Good, ain’t it?”

Dean smiles before picking it up again. “Yes—it’s very good. Everything is wonderful. Thank you, Lynn— _really_.”

The woman coughs and waves off his sincerity, turning on heels to head back into the kitchen to yell at Hank to get a move on with that pie.

Dean smiles as she fades from his view, wondering how he and an old waitress at a diner in the middle of nowhere, could be so very much alike.

***

He spent nearly four hours in that diner. Lynn got him talking about a number of things— his antics, his wishes, his car (which he proudly pointed out to her through the window.  She was impressed) ... all topics that were much more lighthearted than where they started; and she shared a number of things about herself too. He found out that she actually used to work on the air base in Omaha, and that’s where she met her husband. She was a nurse’s assistant there and her husband, Thomas was a pilot, before an injury took him out of the cockpit for good. After their daughter was born, they both needed to find work, so Lynn started up at the diner and he started making deliveries for a small chain of supply stores. Dean listened intently while the woman talked, loving how her eyes would light up over certain things, and hating how they dimmed when she remembered just how much has changed.

When it was his turn to share again, Dean talked about his time in the orphanage— but only telling Lynn about all the trouble he used to get into. He told her about the pranks he would pull on the nuns and she laughed in spite of her disapproval. “You’re a cruel boy” she cackled, slicing up some pieces of freshly baked pie for the two of them to share. Dean didn’t deny it, because it felt good to finally confess a few of his sins, even if it was only to an old woman in a grease-smeared apron.

After the diner began to get dark though, Dean knew it was time for him to go—but leaving felt a lot harder than he expected it to. He enjoyed talking to Lynn—he enjoyed her wit and her short temper. He enjoyed listening to her bicker with Hank over nothing important, and he enjoyed getting to know about her past. She seemed rather fond of him too. She even packed up the rest of the pie for Dean to take with him on the road; so when she was in the back wrapping it up, Dean decided to do a little something as a last minute _thank you_ for the nice old woman who took the time to listen to him.

Once he pulled out the twenty dollar bill to pay for his food, he also pulled out several ones—some for the tip, plus a few others for him to fold. A girl named Agnes taught him how to do this when they shared a room at his first foster home in Topeka, but he can’t say the skill ever really came in handy—not until _now_.

A few minutes passed before Lynn came back out with the to-go box of pie, but it was just enough time for Dean to fold the dollar bills into the shapes of roses, corners twisted around themselves—little green pedals fanned out and laying atop the counter beside the check. Lynn spotted the paper flowers immediately.

“What’s this?” she asked, setting the box down in front of Dean but never taking her eyes off the money.

Dean smiled. “Well—I couldn’t manage _real_ flowers, but I thought that these might do in a pinch.”

Tears instantly crested Lynn’s eyes, and before he knew it, the woman was around the other side of the counter and wrapping him in a hug.

“You’re a good, good boy, Dean Winchester. For all the bad that the world has given you, you’re still so, so good.”

Dean hugged the woman back, not wanting to have to let go—but it was getting late and he still had a ways to drive before he got to Bobby’s. “Thank you, Lynn.”

“No, thank _you_ , child! Thank you so much.”

***

The moon shined brightly over the grassy fields, making everything tinge blue and gold. It felt like a dream, which reminded Dean of the one he had the night before. At the time, it was scary, but thinking back on it now, he almost misses it. He wishes he hadn’t woken up when he did. The storm, the strange thing that was controlling it—the way that thing spoke, _how it moved_ … it stirred up emotions and thoughts that Dean hadn’t experienced in _years_ —the same kinds of notions that always pushed him to strain his neck when he was young and watch the lightning crack across the sky. After the fire, those curiosities turned to feelings of dread and heartache; but that dream made him remember what it was about those dark grey clouds that always captured his interest, and in spite of the strangeness, he wants to feel it all again.

 

The road curls beneath his tires and the stars burst overhead, passing like flurries of snow across his windshield. And he’s so lost in thought for a while, that he doesn’t really notice how tightly he’s having to grip the wheel— that is, until he’s almost running off the road. The wind has picked up since he’d left the diner, and now it almost feels like a tornado is brewing; which Dean really hopes isn't the case because that would put a real kink in his travel time. He struggles to keep his tires straight against the gusts—noticing out of the corner of his eye, the way the grass is bending and whipping back and forth in the gale.  “Shit—this is crazy” he mutters, avoiding the dirt and weeds that zip erratically across the blacktop. One, large cluster of brush jumps out from the thickets and Dean hits the brakes just in time to avoid running it over, eventually slowing down enough to watch it roll to the other side of the road and into the grass. “Jesus!” he breathes, eyes training up from the wheat and green, only to still as they spot an odd shape in the distance.

There, out in the middle of the field—appears to be _a man,_ walking parallel to the road. He's running his hands along the tips of the grass. His shape wavers in and out of focus, almost as if he’s only being _projected_ onto the earth and he's not _really_ there at all. Dean speeds up, barely glancing at where he’s going because he wants to get a better look at whoever is strolling through the field. The person seems to be cloaked in a whirl of white and blue, but the fabric is seems transparent at times, acting more like curls of steam, and in the moments that it clears, Dean can see the man’s bare back stretching between the reams of long grass; and his tan arms—bending with the wind. Dean presses his foot hard against the gas pedal; but the faster he goes, the faster the strange figure seems to move, yet its pace never actually gears beyond a steady walk.

And that's when Dean realizes— that old curiosity has filled his chest once more. So he races on ahead, trying to catch up; but the thing is always just out in front of him, no matter how much he speeds, always pulling a little beyond his reach. The wind batters the side of the impala relentlessly, and Dean does all that he can to keep her steady on the road, but it’s almost as if the quicker he drives, the stronger the wind gets. For a moment, he tears his eyes away from the figure in the field to gaze _beyond_   it—noticing suddenly how the grass ahead of the being is _still_ , as if the wind only begins at the strange man’s back. Where the dirt imprints below the thing's footfall, a whirlwind arises, but not even a step ahead of him— the night is calm, _perfectly silent,_ just waiting for something to shatter its surface like glass.

A hollowing realization settles in Dean’s mind, and as he looks once more to the being gliding over the flat, dry land, he whispers, “ _Castiel?_ ”

All at once, the figure slows and turns its head. Bright, familiar blue eyes shine across the field and latch onto Dean’s, and for a brief and blinding second, the thing smiles— and the world goes white.

***

“Dean? What the hell are ya doin’ out here?”

Dean jumps up, surprised as hell to be hearing _Bobby’s_ voice—and even more surprised to be waking up yet again, in the backseat of the impala. “What the—”

“Did you sleep out here?” Bobby asks, and Dean twists around to look at the old man as he props his dirty old baseball hat atop his head and stares at him through the window.

“I _uh_ …”

“Why didn’t ya come in? You know where I keep the spare key.”

“Well, I _uh_ …”

“Stop mummblin’, son. I can’t hear ya” Bobby grunts, finally reaching over to open the back door. “Now get outta there and come inside. Ya nearly gave me a heart attack. Lookin’ out the window and seein’ this old car in front o’ my house is like seein’ a ghost!”

Dean rubs at his eyes, but eventually— he flips over and peels himself out of the impala. “S—sorry, Bobby. Don’t know what I was thinkin’.”

The old man huffs but then quickly pulls him into a hug. “Do you ever?”

Dean laughs and hugs him back. “Not generally, no.”

Once Bobby let’s go, he clasps Dean on the shoulder. “What’re ya doin’ back so soon? Thought it’d be _months_ before I saw your ass again.”

Dean just shrugs, still battling that _d_ _éjà vu_ while trying to remember how the hell he even got here. “ _Uh_ , guess I missed ya.”

Bobby grumbles again but Dean can see the smile peeking out from behind that overgrown mustache. It makes _him_ smile too. But soon, the old man throws up his hands and starts back towards his front door. “Well, quit all your gushin’ and come in then? I'm cookin’ up some breakfast.”

Dean grins before turning back to grab his bag from the trunk, eventually following at his uncle’s heels, leaving all his confusion behind as he takes in the smell of eggs and bacon, and that familiar musk of _home_.

***

He spent the rest of the day catching up with Bobby—telling him about all the things he’s been up to, his most recent jobs and how much money he’s made from them. He then spent a couple of hours listening to the old man bitch about how Dean’s asking for trouble and how one of these days, someone’s going to catch on to his little scheme. They bickered and they laughed, and they drank a whole case of beer while wandering around Bobby’s property, looking for things with potential of fixing up.

By the time night fell, Dean had nearly forgotten all about the strange drives he’d taken in the evenings before—that is, until he shut the door to the guest room and the air fell quiet around him, leaving him all alone with his thoughts.

He stumbled over to the bed and stripped off his dusty, sweaty clothes, relishing in the feeling of clean, cool sheets on his back. A _real_ bed is a luxury he’ll never say no to, so he’s not surprised when his eyes begin to flutter closed.

But every time they do, all he sees in the dark is _blue_ , and waving grass, and the long, ghostly lines of the strange man's back as he glides across the field. It doesn’t feel like a nightmare this time—it doesn’t even feel like a dream.

The more Dean rests on the images swirling around his mind, the more he feels like Castiel is _also_ a memory … just like his family. Just like the wonder of the storm. Castiel seems like something he experienced long, long ago.

Something he’d forgotten.

_Something he wants back._


	2. Realities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This the second chapter of three. Please subscribe and bookmark for updates.

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Bobby’s house smells like coffee when he wakes up, and Dean has never been more grateful. Last night was full of tossing and turning—a mix of nightmares, nostalgia and questions. Bouncing between what’s real and what isn’t. Every twenty minutes, he would wake up in a sweat, thinking he smelled smoke, or he’d jerk upright mumbling for him to _wait_ , only realizing afterwards that the “him” he’s calling out to is just a figment of his imagination. All in all, it was a tiring night of supposed _rest_ , so some coffee, some toast, and a relaxing day with Bobby seems like the best cure-all he can think of.

When Dean makes his way downstairs, Bobby is glancing at him from the kitchen.

“Well, don’t _you_ look like crap?”

Dean laughs. “Gee, thanks. Good morning to you too!”

Bobby chuckles but then waves Dean over to sit down at the small table by the window. “Want some sausage?”

Dean nods enthusiastically. “But I’ll take some of that coffee first.”

The other man had made his way back to the stove in order to flip over the little, meat patties in the pan; but Dean thinks that the fiery glare he gives him could cook the things more thoroughly. “ _Okay_ —do I look like your damn waitress? Get it yourself!”

With a grin and a snort, Dean pulls himself back up and over to the coffee pot. To anyone who didn’t know him, Bobby Singer might seem like the meanest son of a bitch to ever walk to the earth; but Dean knows better. Every insult is dipped in _heart_ and _concern_ , or good humor and fun. When he was a kid, he and Sam would have the time of their lives needling away at their uncle’s patience—seeing what new, colorful and offensive things they could make him say. Their mom would then have to whack Bobby on the arm and tell him to watch his mouth, and she’d never believe him when he said that the kids were _trying_ to get him in trouble. “You’re four times their age, Bobby. I think _you’re_ the one who should know better” Mary used to snip; and Bobby would just grumble under his breath about how Dean and Sam were secretly demons.

No matter how frustrated he got though—every night that they spent there, Bobby would wake the boys up to sneak them candy and tell them ghost stories. The stories sometimes made it hard for Sam to fall back asleep, but Dean hung on every word. He loved the dark, mysterious thrill of it all. They were like the word-version of the storms. The innocent wonder … the wholesome notion that the only thing he had to worry about was an imaginary monster in the night. Those things were exciting, not terrifying—because even then, Dean somehow knew that the reality of broad daylight could always be worse.

Waking up in a hospital bed, realizing that for the first time that his family wouldn’t be at his side … _that_ was worse. He’d take all the ghosts and goblins in the world over _loneliness._

 

“So, what’s the plan after you leave here? Off to Oregon to go sleep with some rich widow? _Alaska_ , to steal some oil baron’s mistress?” Bobby mumbles, picking up the pan to scrape out the sausages onto a plate.

Dean rolls his eyes as he walks back to the table to sit and drink his coffee. “How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t _sleep_ with any of them! I’m not a whore, Bobby!”

“You don’t need to take your pants off to be a whore” the old man spits, soon dumping the plate of sausage in front of Dean. He then heads back to the counter to grab a package of bagels, taking one out before splitting it and putting it into the toaster. “You still make me nervous every time you bolt away in that car. I never know what kinda mess  you’re gettin’ into.”

Dean sighs. “I’ve never gotten into any trouble.”

“Maybe not _lately_ , but trouble always liked to follow you ‘round like a lost puppy. It’s only a matter of time.”

“When I was _younger,_ maybe … but I’m smarter now. I think things through.”

The toaster pops and Bobby pops with it. “You ain’t thinkin’ about _shit_ if you keep doin’ what you’re doin’! You’re swindlin’ people, son. They payin’ you for strippin’ and lookin’ pretty— _nothin’ else!_ ”

Dean halts just before taking a bite of his breakfast. “That ain’t fair! I do _real_ work for these people.”

Bobby grabs the bagel from the toaster and practically chucks it onto Dean’s plate. “No one gets paid _a grand_ for changin’ a lightbulb, ya idjit! You’re gettin’ paid to make old ladies’ tingle in places they’ve long since forgot about!”

“So?” Dean hisses, thinking that his breakfast will have to wait. Bobby seems determined to pick a fight this morning, and Dean's usual quips aren't dissuading him. “Every time we talk about this, all you do is hassle me! I’ve never done anything wrong here, Bobby! _So what_ if these women want to overpay me for stupid jobs, just because they like the way I look while doin’ ‘em? Who is that hurting? _No one!_ ”

“It ain’t right! It ain't honest!” The old man seethes.

“Why? Just because _you_ say it isn’t? You ain’t the law of the land!”

Bobby grits his teeth and glares Dean down with fury, as if he just might actually _be_ the one in charge of everything. “You …” he begins quietly, and it makes the air feel eerie and thick, “you have the potential to actually _do_ somethin’ worthwhile. You’re smart, boy. You know how to really figure things out and fix problems—why can’t you just put your mind on somethin’ you can actually be proud of for once?”

“Why?” Dean snaps again, feeling too tired and too uneasy to really think about his words. “Who the hell do I have left to impress? It’s not like there’s anyone around anymore who gives a rat’s ass about me or what I do! It’s not like I got any family left to be proud of me!”

The old man’s haggered, grey face melts from _anger_ to _hurt_ in the matter of seconds, just as Dean realizes what he’d said.

“ _Bobby_ …” he breathes, suddenly wishing he never got out of bed this morning, “Bobby, you know what I mean.”

Bobby looks down at his feet, shrugging as he takes a large step towards the entryway to the living room. “Can’t say that I do” he mumbles, voice dryer than sandpaper. And with that, he stomps across the wood slats, following them all the way to the screen door where he punches it open; and just like that, _he’s gone_ , leaving Dean alone in the kitchen, with nothing but a cold breakfast and a cold ache in the pit of his stomach.

***

He tried looking for him, but by the time Dean worked up the courage to chase after the man, Bobby was already long gone. He could just be wandering somewhere around the scrap yard, or he could’ve taken one of his old jalopies into town—either way, it was obvious that he was intent on _not_ setting eyes on Dean again for a while, and Dean couldn’t blame him.

The whole reason he came back here was to be around the one person he felt closest to in this world, and then he went and basically told that person that he means nothing to him.

_Way to go, Dean ... fuckin’ idiot._

He wandered the yard for some time after that, still hoping that he might see the old man digging through a heap of scrap, but eventually he just gave up and kept on walking in order to clear his head. He really needed to think about what he was going to say to try and make this up to Bobby. Dean can’t risk just running his mouth again— _who knows_ what will come out of it next!

 

In spite of how he ruined it though, the day still looks beautiful. The sun is bright and warm, but the breeze is cool, batting the leaves around like a cat with yarn. It’s peaceful, and after a solid hour of walking up the dirt path behind his uncle’s property, Dean is actually starting to feel a little better about things. There’s something so soothing about being surrounded by nothing but trees and open air. It makes him feel special, as if _he’s_ the first to be allowed to witness it all.

He breathes in deep and closes his eyes for the next few steps, just listening to the sounds of the branches scraping against one another, the birds chirping in between, and the rocks crunching beneath his boots. After a little longer, a buzzing bee whizzes by his ear, finally making him open back up—because as much as Dean loves nature, he’s never really been a big fan of _bugs_ ; but when he focuses in on the world once more, he nearly yelps with the sight of big blue eyes glaring back at him, no more than an inch away from his face.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean’s heart seizes in his chest and he stumbles backwards, eventually falling flat onto his ass.

“Are you alright?” Castiel asks, bending down and cocking his head to the side.

“What … _how_ …?” Dean stammers, knowing now that he _has to_ _be_ wide awake—his body hurts too much not to be.

“How … _am I?_ I am doing well thank you, and yourself?” the strange man asks, straightening back out, seeming to smile at him.

“No!” Dean screeches “ _How—how_ the hell am I _seeing_ you right now? I’m awake!”

Castiel’s smile dwindles, but then he pauses, looks over Dean’s head and spins around—immediately walking up the path a ways before lifting his hand to point at a flower. Dean almost asks what the hell he’s doing, but then he hears _more_ buzzing, and soon, a swarm of bees are zooming past him, heading _directly for Castiel_. “These ones” the peculiar man says, lightly gesturing across the meadow with his arm. The swarm hovers a second more and then fans out, black and yellow blurs dive bombing the flowers below. Castiel then nods happily to himself before walking back over to Dean. “Apologies" he says, tone deep and graveled like the worn path below them. "The bees have been looking for more pollen, and I knew that _these_ flowers were overflowing. Anyway, where were we?”

Dean gawks as he looks Castiel up and down. There’s something hazy about him, like this is all still a dream. His edges aren’t quite clear and the colors of his seemingly bare body, bleed into the tan grass behind him; and the harder that Dean tries to see the figure _clearly,_ the more he blurs— like a heat mirage. “I … I _uh_ …” Dean lifts his fists and rubs at his eyes, and then looks at other man again, but he's _still_ splotchy. The only other time Dean has trouble focusing is when he's drunk, but that coffee didn't taste like Bobby spiked it. He looks at Castiel again; but all Dean can make out a mess of dark hair. He can’t really be certain of any other features— just the tan skin and blue eyes. And now his vision is starting to feel goopy because he hasn't blinked once since the man came back over to him. “I can’t …” Dean stammers again, not even really sure of what he’s trying to say.

The form in front of him quickly plops down onto the dirt, seeming as if he wants to stay at eye level. “You probably have some questions for me. I have a few minutes, although I will need to be snowing soon.”

“What?” Dean asks for what seems like the millionth time. He quickly looks around at the rest of the world. _It’s_ all as it always was—in focus and clear, but as soon as he circles back to Castiel, it’s nothing but _wavy, dark lines_ and _blue_.

“I need to make it snow” Castiel says simply, as if this _is_ all very simple to understand. “Not _here_ of course … it’s still late spring here.” He pauses and then looks around as well. “I will need to bring some rain within the next few days though. The trees have been mentioning how thirsty they are.”

Dean finally closes his eyes again before sitting up onto his haunches. Then he drops his head into his hands, because it’s starting to ache. Trying to make sense of what’s currently in front of him is doing a number on his temples. “I don’t know what’s going on” he whispers, mostly to himself—but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t hoping for an answer.

“ _Dean_ …” Castiel mutters, but Dean doesn’t look up.

“What are you?” Dean quickly mumbles into his palms, remembering that the last time he asked that, Castiel had promised him an explanation. “How do you know me? Why am I seeing you _everywhere?_ ”

A heavy sigh rings out, vibrating the dirt beneath his body, and it finally pulls Dean back from the dark with a start. “I don’t really have an answer for your first question. I just know _what_ I’m here to do, but I was never branded with any sort of _title_. As for _why_ you can see me, well—that’s a bit easier to explain.”

Dean almost laughs because all of this seems downright _impossible_ no matter the reasoning.

“When you were a child, I was told that you were struck by lightning?” Castiel then asks, eyes widening as they wait for a response.

“Told? Told by who?” Dean counters, feeling even more confused now.

“The old oak tree from where you used to live as a child. The place in … _Kansas,_ is what I think you humans call it. In any event, the tree was very worried about you. I was happy when I got to inform it that you were okay.”

Dean’s mouth flaps, but nothing comes out.

“Trees— _oaks_ especially, I find to be worriers. I suppose I can understand _why_ … they only ever stay in one place and _witness_ moments. It’s easy to worry when all you ever really experience are things falling from your branches.”

“The … the _tree_ told you about me?”

Castiel nods.

“A _tree?_ A freakin’ _plant?_ You’re sayin’ you know about me from a _plant?_ ” Dean is shrieking now, suddenly finding the strength to pull himself back to his feet; but by the time he gets there, Castiel had apparently risen too and is eyeing him closely.

“You sound upset. Are you alright?”

That makes Dean bust out in a demented laugh. “ _Alright?_ _Hell no_ I’m not alright!” He posts his hands onto his hips and begins to pace back and forth along the path. “You have to be crazy! Or _I’m_ crazy! I’m hallucinating or something! Maybe I finally lost it! I’m going nuts!”

“I assure you, you’re _not_ crazy. Those who can see me usually feel like I’m just an illusion, so they never bother trying to speak with me; but you’re the first to actually _try,_ so I’m happy to inform you, you’re perfectly sane.”

“What? Other people can see you too?” Dean says, stopping mid step and looking back at Castiel.

“Yes. Those who are struck by lightning have varying abilities in vision. Some apparently only catch a shadow of me, others— it seems as if they can sense me a bit more. You are the first to ever really _focus_ on me though; but even that appears to have taken some time. When you were younger, I don’t think you paid much attention to me at all. But now that you’re older and _are_ paying attention, I am curious to know _what_ you see? How do I appear to you?”

“How do you … _what?_ ” Dean spits harshly. “You appear like a fuckin’ crazy person, _that’s how!_ ”

“I look like a _person?_ _Hm_ … interesting. Am I a male or a female, or can you tell?” he then seems to look down at himself, as if he’s searching for something, and Dean almost chokes when he realizes that Castiel is asking if Dean can see his _penis._

“Woah! Stop … _you’re a guy_ , okay? Like, I— _uh_ —I haven’t checked out your junk or anything, but I can tell that you’re totally a dude!”

“Is that how you perceive me? _Very interesting_ ” Castiel chirps enthusiastically, sounding like a professor who has just heard a new and stimulating theory. “I always wondered what those who were able to acknowledge me _saw_. I didn’t know if I seemed like something familiar to them or if I was just shapes and colors. Perhaps your mind is putting me into a form that makes sense to _you—oh!_ This is so intriguing! I wish I could see myself through your eyes. I imagine it’s much more interesting than the real thing.”

Dean takes a deep breath to try and calm himself. Castiel is apparently loving all of this, but Dean is suppressing the urge to knock himself out on a rock. “Okay … _um_ … what’s the _real thing_ then? What are you … what are you _supposed_ to look like?”

The thing across from him then appears to shrug, eventually looking back over his shoulder to stare at the bees. “I’m not really certain. I’ve heard your kind describe me as ‘ozone’ or ‘pressure systems’ … ‘atmosphere’, things like that. After thinking about it for several billion years though, I think I am _all_ those things, plus fractured light and heat.” Castiel hums a moment and then turns back to Dean. “I am a combination of all that and more, and I am here to ensure that the world continues to live and grow.”

“Like …” Dean gulps, feeling even more insane for what he’s about to say, “like _a god?_ ”

Castiel laughs—a loud, booming laugh that shakes the earth and all the trees, causing him to cower and the birds to explode from the branches in a flurry of squawks and feathers.

“Sorry!” Castiel calls after them a moment later, but the birds continue to fly away. He chuckles and then nods to Dean again. “Sorry” he repeats, more calmly now. “I forget how loud I can be … but no, I am not a god. As far as I know, there are no such things as gods because I have yet to witness anything that is so all-powerful.”

“Some might say _you are_ all-powerful” Dean mutters, thinking that _he’s_ the ‘some’ in question.

“I am not. I assure you … _yes,_ I have more ability than _you_ _do_ , but it’s all about perspective. _You_ may seem all-powerful to a flea.”

Dean snickers at that. “So I’m the flea in this scenario?”

Castiel nods. “Yes, metaphorically, you are.”

“Wow, thanks man!”

“You’re welcome.”

Dean squints at the figure in front of him, finding that his image is a bit clearer when doing so.  “You’re kinda clueless, aint ya?”

Castiel’s face puzzles. “How do you mean?”

Dean sighs but he realizes that he’s starting to smile in spite of everything. “Nothin’ … I just, I can see it now … you’re _not_ a god. Still don’t know what the hell you are, and I’m still not sure if I believe any of this is actually happening, but at least I know _that_ much.”

“Well I am glad you can be certain of something then. I suppose I can see how all of this might be daunting to understand. I felt the way the first time I felt a star explode. It’s rather unsettling to feel your foundations rocked in such a way.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah … right. _Exactly_ the same thing.”

Castiel nods again but then his eyes shoot up towards the sky, _blue_ narrowing on _blue._ “Oh … will you excuse me a moment?” he asks, but before Dean can answer, the shape he thought he saw in front of him, dissolves into a mist of color, flitting up through the air like cast off from a geyser.

Dean gasps and stumbles backwards, almost falling onto his ass for a second time, but he manages to catch himself enough so that his tailbone is spared another beating. “Fuck … okay … _fuck!_ This is nuts! I need to wake up. This has to be a dream! A crazy fuckin’ dream! I just need to wake up!” He turns around and stares back down the path from which he came, wondering if he runs fast enough, if it’ll somehow jolt him back into consciousness; but before he can even get in a step, the mist is raining back down in front of him, blocking his attempt to flee. A puddle of colors hover at Dean's feet for a long moment, but then the iridescent cluster builds upon itself, spiraling up from the dirt, until Castiel’s shape is somewhat whole again.

“I'm sorry about that. The antarctic ice shelf was cracking again, and I needed to check to make sure it wasn't about to break off completely." The hazy man then appears to shrug, like the statement was a mundane one. Castiel then lifts his chin at him, obviously noting how Dean is geared to run away. "Are you leaving?” he asks, staring at Dean inquisitively, like he _didn’t_ just get shit out fucking of a rainbow.

“Uh ... _yeah!_ I need to wake the fuck up!” Dean yelps, darting past the figure and running as fast as he can down the trail.

“ _Dean_.”

Dean pants as he pushes himself further, but no matter how far he runs, it sounds like Castiel is still right beside him.

“Dean!”

Dean glances to his right and sees the shapeless man gliding across the dirt and grass, matching his speed, effortlessly. “Shit!” Dean barks, skidding to a stop to try and run in the other direction, zigging and zagging like a gazelle.

“ _Dean_ —this is ridiculous. I don’t have the time to be watching you run all over this field.”

“Go away!” Dean shouts, batting his arm to  the side, trying to shove the strange figure away. “I need to wake up!”

“But you’re _not asleep”_ Castiel says plainly.

“I _have_ to be!”

A frustrated sigh fills his ears, making Dean hazard one more peek. The being’s arms are folded now, and those glowing blue eyes seem to be rolling at him. “I thought you wanted me to answer your questions, Dean—but if you’re just going to act like a frightened animal, then I will leave you be.”

But Dean _is_ frightened, too frightened to even really hear what is being said to him, and in one last attempt to wake up and escape all of this, Dean jerks to the side, colliding directly into the space that Castiel is taking up. A strange hum begins to echo inside his body as soon as they touch, and Dean wants to move, but finds that he can’t. _He’s stuck_ , frozen, stiff and unable to even really form a thought anymore. His eyes dart around in their sockets, only registering reds and whites, flashes backed by the faint sounds of his own teeth grinding together. The moment seems to last for far too long, but then all too quickly, he’s tumbling in ball across the patchy field, coming to a sprawled out stop, flat on his back. Staring up at the sky, he wonders if _that_ was it— if _that_ was him waking up. He may not be in the back of the impala this time, but that doesn’t mean he’s not finally coming out of whatever cracked-out fever dream he’d just been immersed in.

“We really shouldn’t touch" Castiel grumbles somewhere to the left of his body.

Dean could cry, or scream or any number of things when hears that low, rumbling voice roll passed his ears, but he settles for looking up, spotting Castiel hovering above him ow—yet, this time, he looks different, more in focus. He’s more _real_ ; which is only more unsettling, so Dean drops his head back onto the ground and closes his eyes as he groans loudly. “What the hell was that?” he mutters, suddenly feeling very achy from their explosive collision.

“Well …”

Dean can feel a presence lay down beside him—it’s singing with energy and weight; and as intimidating as it is to sense its closeness, there’s a warmth that is strangely inviting, so he stays still and keeps his eyes closed, just waiting for Castiel to explain what had happened, because there seems to be literally nothing else that Dean can do right now anyway.

“I have never been certain as to why lightning allows creatures to see me, but I imagine it’s because I am made up of electrical currents as well. Maybe that’s’ what I am _mostly_ comprised of, so those who have experienced certain types of shocks in excess, can see them more clearly in the air. In any case, I have found that when I make direct contact with any living creature, it tends to react the same way as when met with a direct electrical current. I imagine what you just experienced was like being struck by lightning again. I can’t say I’ve ever known a creature to charge me like that, but I have to think it wasn’t pleasant for you.”

Throughout Castiel’s speech, Dean’s body has gotten shakier and shakier, and now he feels like he’s in a constant state of fits. “Fuck!” he hisses, gripping at the ground as he convulses back and forth.

“Oh dear … hold on” Castiel mutters, and before Dean can take another breath, everything around him darkens. His eyes are still closed, but  where he could once sense the sunlight through his lids, now, he can’t see anything at all. It’s as if the world spun into night in the matter of seconds; and considering what he's witnessed recently, he wouldn't be surprised. Dean wants to open his eyes again, but his body is still seizing too much for him to manage it, so he clenches his jaw and prays for it all to be over soon.

“Try to stay calm” Castiel’s voice lulls into his ear, much closer now than it ever was before. “Breathe … _breathe_ …”

Dean does the best that he can, inhaling and exhaling with no help from his frantic chest.

“Now, I’m not certain, but this may sting.”

At the same moment, a loud buzzing begins to radiate through his body, through the air—seemingly, through everything around them, and it feels like he can sense it all in minute and defined detail. Dean can sense all the edges of the earth. For all the blurred boundaries he found in Castiel, there is nothing but crisp, clean lines in his mind. From rocks on the highest peaks, to the smallest grains of sand at the bottom of the ocean, Dean feels their presence in the palms of his hands—hands that no longer feel small and fumbling and useless, but strong and sure. A laugh soon bubbles up from his throat, but the sound never seems to escape his lips. All he can hear is that whirring, electric hum whizzing through his head.

“Open your eyes Dean … _Dean_ … please!”

The buzzing begins to soften, slowly fading into nothing more than a soft tick at the base of his skull.

“Dean … _no_ … Dean!”

With a wince, Dean cracks open an eye, finding that he’s staring directly into Castiel's face, and for the first time, he's actually _seeing it_.

“Oh, good! I thought I killed you!”

“ _What?_ ” Dean whispers, still feeling sore—but at least, _mostly_ in control of his body.

“I wasn’t sure if that would work, but you were starting to succumb to the effects of our interaction. I could hear your heart falling out of rhythm. I knew another shock would maybe correct it, but I wasn’t sure … I thought that I had killed you when you didn’t respond.”

“ _Killed me?_ ” He’s still a little groggy, but repeating those words finally snap him back out of his fog. “ _Wait_ … what did you do?” After another second to compose himself, Dean lifts his head, looking down over himself, but instead of seeing just his own limbs, he notices Castiel’s body too, hovering centimeters above his; and it's pretty obvious now that the man is _completely naked._ “Woah! Okay … seriously, what _did_ you do?”

The other’s form quickly glides up and over, settling back down on the grass just a few feet away; but with the distance, his image starts to blur again. “I _grazed_ you …” Castiel says, seeming almost shy about it, which seems like too simple of an emotion to see coming from such an unreal and powerful thing. “Direct contact might’ve been too much, so I enveloped you and grazed your skin. I am so happy that it worked. I would’ve felt awful if I had electrocuted you to death.”

Dean huffs out a breathy laugh, not knowing how else to react at this point. “Yeah … that would’ve been a bummer” he drones, eventually peeling himself up to a sit, so that he can stretch out all his stiff muscles.

“Yes. If that means what I think it means, then it would’ve been a bummer indeed.”

Dean rolls his eyes, finally finding the strength to clamor to his feet. "So ... you just ... _grazed me_ or whatever. No weird stuff?" He snorts, wanting to smack himself, because this weird dude groping him would probably be the most _normal_ thing to happen right now.

"Weird stuff?" Castiel asks, sounding so confused, it actually makes Dean feel a bit better.

"Never mind ... I should uh ... I should go."

"Didn't you have more questions?"

" _Nah,_ I think you've told me enough for one day" Dean stammers, taking a couple of stumbled steps backwards.

Castiel floats upright and seems to grow even larger in doing so. "Well, I am always close if you decide you want to speak with me again. I would very much enjoy asking you more questions as well. I think we could learn a lot from each other."

Dean's heart quickens— perhaps from the figures new, grand size, or maybe it's from the thought of the thing _always_ being nearby, but one way or another, Dean is starting panic. “Okay … well … almost dying always makes me tired, so I really have to… _ya know_ … _leave_ now.”

Castiel floats higher, ghostly feet tickling the tops the dandelions. “Yes, well I suppose I must go too. Like I said before, I need to go make some snow, and I have already created some nasty hurricanes with my delay.”

Dean scrunches up his face with question and opens his mouth to ask, but then stops himself. “Uh … yeah, _sure_ … okay.”

“It was good talking to you, Dean—at least during the moments that you _weren’t_ terrified.”

“I wasn’t terrified” Dean snips back defensively, only to wonder why the hell he's arguing with a wavy, man-like blob of electrified color.

But Castiel just smiles and shakes his head—and once again, Dean thinks that he can really see his face, and from where he's standing, Castiel looks _kind._ “Dean … I have seen half-devoured rabbits look less scared than you just did.”

“Hey! That’s not true! I—” but Dean can’t finish his protest because Castiel is already gone, leaving nothing but a thin sheen of color in his wake.

***

The walk back down the path was all a blur, because Dean was too busy trying to recount the last half hour in his head to pay much attention; and the weird thing was, he _could_ recount it. He could remember every solitary second of it, unlike those dreams which were usually just jumbled messes of sounds and emotions. And come to think of it, the more he thought about it all, the clearer it became, and he isn’t sure if that makes him feel better or worse. It at least means he’s not crazy, right? It was all real … but it _can’t_ be real so that must mean that he _is_ crazy!

Yet ... Castiel said that he _wasn’t_ crazy though—then again, Dean has to be insane to even be listening to an _almost_ all-powerful being who just almost killed him with his blurry naked body, so _yeah_ —put another check in the “looney tunes” box.

 

With all the back and forth, it isn’t long until he’s back at Bobby’s, walking in through the front door only to spot the old man sitting on the couch—a beer in one hand and a book in the other.

He doesn’t even look up at Dean. “If it wasn’t for that durn car sittin’ out front, I woulda thought you turned tail and ran.”

And he could still gravel, and he could still be aggravated that Bobby picked a fight in the first place, and he could still give him a hefty piece of his mind, but after everything that Dean just went through, nothing on this green earth has ever sounded more comforting to him than those gruff and grumpy words. And soon, Dean is grinning ear to ear, quickly racing up to Bobby and jumping onto the couch beside him. In the frenzy, he accidentally knocks the man’s beer out of his hand, but Dean doesn’t care. He just wants to give Bobby a hug. He’ll buy him more beer later—he’ll do whatever he can for this old fart, because _he’s his family_. He’s his family and he’s _here_ and he _makes sense._ “I’m such an ass, Bobby! I’m a stupid fuckin’ ass and you should totally kick me out because of how big of an ass I am, but I’m sorry! You’re an annoying old bastard, but you’re my _favorite_ annoying old bastard, okay? And I want to stick around for a while … _if you’ll let me._ ”

Bobby’s mouth is hanging open by the time Dean lets go enough to look him over. The old man is shocked, but thankfully, he doesn't seem angry anymore.

“I want to make you proud ... I do. That's important to me” Dean adds on, scooching back a bit to let his uncle breathe. “You’re all I got, and I don’t want to lose you too.”

Bobby’s mouth finally shuts again, and then his face collects in on itself, and his jaw clenches on what to say and how to say it, but it takes him a good, long while to finally speak. “Well …” he mutters, after he’s looked Dean up and down a bit, probably trying to make sure that the boy isn’t cracked in the head, “that spare bed ain’t doin’ me any good just sittin’ and collectin’ dust.”

Dean laughs before gathering Bobby in yet another hug. “Thanks, Bobby!”

Bobby grumbles something close to “you’re welcome” but then he shrugs Dean’s arms away. “Now, stop all your blubberin’ and clean up this mess! You spilt my beer all over everythin’!”

With a nod, Dean watches Bobby as he gets up and turns back towards the stairs. “Yeah … sure thing” he says, still grinning.

“And clean up your dishes from earlier! If you’re gonna stay here, ya ain’t gonna wreck my house!” Bobby grunts, now heading up the stairs—most likely to go change out of his beer-soaked shirt.

“I’m on it” Dean assures.

“And … your engine smelled hot when you pulled in here yesterday. I think we need to change that oil, maybe the filter too” Bobby barks, but it’s obvious now that there’s a smile behind it.

Dean watches as the last of the man pulls from view onto the second floor, and he laughs—knowing that everything will be better now. The world outside may be crazier than he ever thought possible, but at least in _here_ —everything is alright.

As long as he stays in this house with Bobby, things can make sense.

***

He cleaned up the beer as well as all the dishes, and he even went as far as to start a load of laundry after finding a basket of Bobby’s clothes sitting next to the washing machine in the garage when he went in there to get the oil pan. Once that was running, he gathered up everything else that he needed—funnels, shop rags, wrenches and a couple quarts of the good oil that Bobby keeps in the shed out back. And after everything was all set, Dean ran upstairs to tell his uncle that he was ready to get to work.

“Bobby! I got baby pulled into the garage. Did ya want to help me or did ya just want to give me orders, because I’m good with both.” Dean chuckles to himself, knowing which of the two is actually going to happen. That old man won’t lift a finger if he can find a way to make something a “teachable moment”. “Bobby?”

Bobby’s bedroom door is open, so Dean steps inside, still knocking on the wood to announce himself. “Bobby, are you on the pot or somethin’?” Dean asks, looking around the room, not finding his uncle anywhere in sight. He then moves over to the adjoining bathroom, pushing on the old worn door and peeking inside. “ _Bobby!_ ” Dean is skidding to the floor in an instant, pulling the old man up—but his body is heavy in Dean’s arms. His eyes are closed … his chest isn’t rising. “Bobby?” Dean cries out again, gently laying the man back down so that he can start pushing his palms against the center of his chest. He doesn’t know proper first aid, _he never learned_ —but Dean just knows that he has to try something! _Anything!_ “C’mon, Bobby! _Breathe!_ ”

No response—no change, and nothing but a sickening grey blue moves across Bobby’s lips.

“God damnit, Bobby! _Please_ , don’t do this!” With another second of helpless fumbling, Dean finally thinks to pull his phone from his pocket and dial 911. The phone seems to ring forever.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“My uncle— he collapsed in the bathroom! He’s not breathing!”

“Alright, sir. Stay calm. What’s the address?”

“82 East Norfolk! Please, just get someone out here!” Dean listens to the deathly silence, his rushing heart being the only sound to match it.

“Units have been notified and they’re on their way. How long has your uncle been unconscious?”

“I don’t know! I just found him like this!”

“Does his airway appear to be obstructed?”

Dean reaches out and opens Bobby’s mouth, taking a quick look inside. “I—I don’t think so.”

“Okay, then—have you attempted CPR?”

Dean is beginning to cry, but he tries to stay composed enough to keep the phone pressed against his head. “Yes— _no_ , I mean—I tried but I don’t know how!”

The woman on the other end of the line takes a breath and somehow, that makes Dean do the same. “Alright sir, I’ll walk you through this—put the phone on speaker and set it on the floor.”

Dean does as he’s told … just like he was planning to.

He’ll take the orders.

He’ll learn from this teachable moment.

He’ll do whatever he can because Bobby is Dean’s _family_ , and he is finally going to try and make him proud.


	3. Endings

* * *

 

* * *

 

“Mr. Winchester?”

Dean doesn’t answer. _He can’t._

“ _Mr. Winchester?_ I know this is a lot to think about given the situation, but we need to know what you want to do.”

“Just sell it.”

The lawyer sits back in his chair, causing it to squeak on its hinges. “You don’t want the inheritance?”

Dean finally looks up, two-week old tears still dangling from his lashes. “Why would I?”

“Because he was your uncle … well, _adoptive uncle,_ I would think you’d want—”

“His house? His business? _His things?_ ” Dean bellows, anger lifting him to his feet. He’s felt trapped ever since he walked into this place and now, it’s downright suffocating. “Is that all you think the man meant to me?”

The lawyer leans back even more, but he remains calm. This is probably not the first outburst he’s witnessed and it certainly won’t be the last. “Mr. Winchester … I am not making any such assumption; but your uncle had no living blood relatives. He obviously saw _you_ as family and he wanted to give you something in the event of his passing. He had no other legal documents protecting him or his possessions. All he had was _this will_. Therefore, _you_ must have meant a great deal to him if he would go to such lengths to see that you benefited from his life.”

It was supposed to sound comforting, Dean knows that, but he still can’t shake the feeling that if he signs that piece of paper, accepting everything that Bobby left for him, that means  he’s alright with the man being gone—and nothing could be further from the truth. “The only benefit I want from his life …” Dean growls, staring that suit square in the face, “is having his life _back_.”

“And I wish I could give that to you, but— _Mr. Winchester_ , where are you going?”

Dean had already turned around and now has his hand on the handle of the door. “I need to go and clear my crap out of that house before your people come and rip it apart.”

The lawyer rises from his chair, tie dangling over the unsigned document, and Dean looks back on it sadly—noting the tight curves of Bobby’s name written so long ago— _by a ghost_. “It doesn’t have to be that way. You could still keep his home for yourself.”

Dean sighs as he turns back and opens up the door, shaking his head along the way. “It’s not _a home_ —not if Bobby’s not in it. It’s just _stuff_ … it’s just stuff and that’s never been what I needed.”

***

Baby whines down the road, being pushed too far, too fast, but Dean just wants to get this over with. The quicker he gets his belongings out of that house, the sooner he can stop thinking about everything that had happened. For the last fourteen days, he’s been forced to concentrate on nothing else. From the hospital where the doctor told him that Bobby didn’t make it, to the funeral home where Dean spent every penny he had on a decent burial. To just yesterday, where the lawyer called him to tell him that Bobby had left him something in his will. It was all too much and Dean has been drowning in it completely, just searching for a way to breach the surface. Some of the people in town that knew Bobby, chipped in to help; which is probably the only reason Dean has made it this long without going _absolutely_ insane. Having someone to share at least a little bit of the weight can make all the difference. The town sheriff— _Jody_ , not only offered Dean a place to stay while he sorted everything out, but she also donated the flowers for the funeral. She had busted Bobby several times for minor things—overdue parking citations, property disagreements, and one embarrassing count of public drunkenness that she never let him forget; but she couldn’t help liking the guy. So she’d stop in every now and then to chat, have a beer and check up on things. Dean thinks Bobby had a crush on her, but nothing ever came from it. _It’s a shame_ —Bobby’s heart might’ve lasted longer if he had someone _real_ to love.

Someone he could actually count on to take care of him.

 _Someone worthwhile_ … Dean begins to cry again, making a hard left off the exit and baby’s tires squeal.

Rufus, one of the Bobby’s old hunting buddies, helped out too. He paid for the man’s headstone and assisted Dean in getting thoroughly trashed the day after his uncle had died. Dean quickly discovered that he and Rufus are very much alike—they both mostly keep to themselves, but obviously know how to be charming when it counts. They also both know the value of really good scotch when times are tough, and Dean could not thank Rufus enough for that. But even with the support, he still couldn’t handle all of this; and now that everything is done and taken care of—now that his uncle was in the ground and out of his reach completely, Dean just wants to run and forget about everything. He wants to leave and pretend that he’s someone else—someone who never knew what it was to lose people. He could _always_ pretend, he could always lie and fool himself; and if he did it for long enough, he was bound to believe it eventually.

It was a shit plan, but it’s the only one he’s got and he’s not waiting a second longer to make it happen.

 

He finally gets to Bobby’s around a quarter to noon, but it takes him a moment to gather the courage to actually go inside. Dean didn’t need to grab much. Most of his stuff was already in the car because he brought it over when he was staying with Jody; but some things he’d left inside this decrepit, old house—things he didn’t necessarily need from day to day, but that were important all the same. It was mostly practical—the extra set of boots that he only wore if was doing hard labor, his dad’s old leather jacket that he usually left at Bobby’s until he visited the man for the holidays, and the weather warranted something heavier. And, there was _that pistol_ , which almost always stays in the impala—but Dean had taken it out when he first gotten here a couple weeks ago, because he wanted to clean it. Sleeping in his car is not the safest thing, and Bobby had given him the gun for protection. Thankfully, Dean’s never had to use it, but he wanted to keep it clean just in case that ever changed. Now however, it seems like so much more than a convenient, little weapon. It seems like his last connection to a man who never knew anything _but_ how to care for others. Dean could keep this house to try and feel close to Bobby again, but for some reason, that gun overshadowed all four of those termite-eaten walls. Old books and warn leather arm chairs just seem useless now, and they could never match the feeling of that mother of pearl handle and short, stiff trigger gracing the skin of his hand.

 

The screen door opens with a few clicks, and then screeches shut behind him. Dean flinches, not only from the noise, but also from the cold that meets his face. The air feels icy and harsh in here, and it fills his lungs with needles. _He hates it_ —it’s unfamiliar and painful, and it makes Dean even more frantic to get in and get out. As he walks across the wood, the shadows that are cast upon the floor grow claws, and grab at his legs, trying to slow him down. The dusty banister threatens to give way as he heads up the stairs, and then the entire house seems to shift under his shoes as he moves down the hall and into the guest room. The air is thicker now, turning those needles to knives. The roof and floor spin back and forth before Dean’s eyes, making him stumble through the door and onto the bed. Everything is tilting— _in his mind, in his heart, around his body_. This old house seems intent on killing him, and part of him wants to let it.

_Why not?_

He heaves, feeling sick as he pushes himself off the mattress; and Dean’s not sure if it’s the guilt that’s making him want to puke, or the dizziness from being up here without hearing Bobby bumbling around on the other side of the wall, but either way—he's close to chucking up the little bit of food he actually ate today.  “Just go—get your shit and go” he mutters to himself, blinking several times before standing back up to move towards the closet.

As he opens it—bracing himself on the adjoining wall, the scent of dust and Bobby’s soap float out in a gust to greet him. It smells like leather and hickory, but lighter somehow. Dean never knew where the man got it from, but his house carried the scent from corner to corner, because Bobby walked it corner to corner almost every single day. He was always moving, always _doing_ _something_ , fixing something, leaving bits of himself on everything he touched. But with him gone, the smell had faded, leaving the stench of regret and loneliness in its place. This closet however, had been closed, sealed off and protected, trapping the old man’s presence inside—and the momentary hope that the scent filled Dean with, brought him crashing to his knees.

“ _Damnit_ ” Dean hisses, gagging on his own heartache. “Damnit, Bobby! Why?”

But there’s no answer, and even though he knew there wouldn’t be, Dean still expected one. He still expected that old man to come into this room, cussing at him to get off the floor and stop crying like a baby. And as long as he stays here, he’ll _always_ expect that—which is why he has to go.

 

With his last bit of strength, Dean grabs the rest of his things and runs back down the stairs, leaving everything else alone. Maybe some of it will go to someone who can actually appreciate it and not feel weighed down by memories; but Dean knows that most of what’s inside here will end up in the dump. Bobby owned a lot, but none of it was ever _worth_ anything to anyone other than him. It’s a shame—no one could see value like Bobby could.

If it was old and broken, the man took it in and fixed it up until it was useful again.

 _Hell_ —it’s what he was trying to do with _Dean_ all his life; but Dean wasn’t as easy to repair as an old car. The rust was too dense, the breaks, _too jagged._

Bobby tried, and it’s the _trying_ that probably killed him.

 

The sun burns down on his face as Dean stumbles back outside, gasping for fresh air; but the dust is swirling up in the wind, making him choke even more. Desperate and manic, he clamors over to the impala, pulling open the rear door before chucking the last of his possessions into the backseat, and then, with one final glance at that worn wood siding and warped, faded roof—Dean climbs in behind the wheel, starting the impala up so that he can finally say _goodbye_ to this place—the second time in his life he’s had to watch a _home_ become a _memory_ ; but as he pulls away, looking at Bobby’s old house in the side-mirror, he finds that he just can’t bring himself to actually say the words

 _Goodbye_ has always been too hard, and Dean was nothing if not a coward.

 

The road is soon singing beneath Baby’s tires, and the miles behind him burn in the daylight, but no matter how far he goes, it’s like he can still see the edges of that “Singer Salvage” sign dancing on the horizon. It’s haunting the corners of his eyes, making him feel chased— _fight or flight_ is kicking in, and he’s all for the latter, pressing the gas pedal as far as it can go.

The impala’s engine growls in protest but Dean doesn’t listen to her. She may be tired and thirsty but he needs her to move right now and he’s calling in all his favors.

“C’mon, c’mon” he urges, leaning forward, as if that will somehow make the distance come closer. “ _C’mon!_ ” but his speed remains the same. Dean feels his lungs ache with his stale breath—and he sweats with the fear of the inevitable as it gains on him.

A loud _thunk_ suddenly bounces the carriage beneath his seat, and then the pedal gives way under his foot, feeling free and floating within the socket.

“What?” Dean gasps, looking around the dash for some inclination of what happened, but all he can tell is that he’s slowing down—the landscape is no longer a blur of brown and green in the windows, and his baby’s engine is hissing, before it finally stalls completely. “No! No, no, no! _C’mon!_ ” He turns the wheel until he’s pulled off onto the dusty shoulder, and then he turns the key in the ignition, cutting off the power before trying to start it again. The engine rolls over once, but then everything just whirs in a cacophony of painful _clinks_ and _clunks_. “Don’t do this to me now, girl!” Dean pleads, trying to start her a second time, but the impala quiets to nothing, showing no signs of compliance.

After a moment more, Dean’s hand slowly falls from the keys, and he slumps backwards, just staring wide eyed at the road ahead, knowing that it’ll stay _exactly_ where it is, never coming any closer—at least, not while his baby stays like _this_.

“Just … just fix her and go” Dean eventually says to himself, shutting his eyes a moment to try and steal his quivering nerves. He has some tools in the trunk … he _may_ be able to get her running again, but something deep in his gut tells him that it won’t be that easy. _Nothing ever is_. He knew that she was tired when he left Albuquerque. He knew that she needed a little love and attention, but then— _Bobby_ , and the funeral, and … Dean just couldn’t give her that, not with everything else that was going on.

“I’m sorry” he says just before opening the door to get out; but the car doesn’t forgive him, and he knows he doesn’t deserve it anyway.

As he sets one boot onto the gravel lined road, he bends down and hits the hood release, watching through the windshield as the front of the car pops upwards, eventually releasing a faint stream of smoke into the air. Dean groans, knowing that that isn’t a good sign. He quickly makes his way over and pulls open the cover to look in on the engine. More smoke billows out, ultimately clearing to reveal a sheen of greasy black oil coating many of the metal surfaces below. _Something ruptured_ , that much is certain, and Dean won’t know what it is until he gets in there and starts assessing the damage—but his stomach aches on _what else_ is certain: he’ll be stuck _here_ until he can get his car to a shop.

Not that he can _afford_ to take her to a shop right now.

_He can’t afford anything._

All his money is currently lying in the ground beside all his reason to care.

 

The hopelessness is beginning to pool around his feet, but Dean doesn’t want to acknowledge it yet—so instead, he sloshes through and on to the rear of the car, opening up the trunk so that he can grab his tools. _Maybe there’s still a chance—_ he lies to himself, trying his hardest to be optimistic; but as he bends in to grab his kit, a sour, musty scent fills his nostrils. Dean yanks his head out again, coughing on the stench—trying to figure out where it’s coming from. The only things that are back here are his toolbox and a spare tire. Nothing else should be—

Dean suddenly spots the pie box that Lynn had packed for him, and he remembers that he put it in the trunk to keep it cooler.

He steadies himself on the edge of the bumper, staring in on the white cardboard—now stained and curving in on itself from the oil seeping into the cardboard. After a moment more, he reaches into the trunk to pull the thing towards himself, grimacing as the stench grows stronger. Finally, he opens the box—looking inside at the mossy green clumps covering the once delicious, flaky crust.

“Shit” he mutters, feeling guilty for forgetting about the woman’s generous gift. The drive up to Bobby’s was so strange, and oddly short—it threw him off. He would’ve remembered it if not for the wind, and the weird dream … and _Castiel_.

With one more, long breath of the fresh air outside, he bends down to pick the box up so he can throw it away somewhere, but as he lifts it out, he notices something poking up from beside the tin.

The small piece of paper is stained with cherry filling and grime, yet the words written upon it are still legible.

 

> “Dean.
> 
> Thank you for staying and chatting with me. You don’t know how much I appreciate it. Your uncle is lucky to have someone like you in his life. Take care of yourself.
> 
> -Lynn”

The pie box falls from his hands, hitting the ridge of the trunk and splattering moldy pastry all over everything, but Dean can’t bring himself to care—he’s still staring at the note.

“ _Lucky_ ” he stutters, eyes dancing over _that_ word and _that_ sentence in particular. “Lucky to have someone … _like me?_ ”

His heart begins thrashing against his rib cage—beating him viciously from the inside out, and Dean welcomes every blow. _He deserves it_ —he deserves worse. _Lucky … no one_ in his entire life has ever been lucky to have him around. Too many foster parents made that abundantly clear, and _Bobby_ was his final reminder. If not for Dean, the old man would probably still be roaming his salvage yard, looking for things to mend—but instead, Dean came along and broke him beyond repair.

He took Bobby’s heart and strained it and stressed it and worked it on overtime, until it just couldn’t take the pain anymore.

“ _I killed him_.”

Boiling hot tears run down his cheeks, and eventually—the note falls from Dean’s hand as well. But his hand isn't empty for long, because he’s soon climbing into the backseat, grabbing that old wooden case—opening it up to look at the pistol tucked inside.

With as long as he stares at the thing though—the act of pulling it out and loading it is all just a blur; and before he knows it, Dean is walking off into the pasture that’s stretching out at the side of the road, heading towards the adjoining tree-line, looking back every so often to see the _impala—hood_ up, doors open, _lifeless_.

That’s how he leaves everything: _broken and lifeless._

After one last look, he finds an old stump just past the first line of tall, shaggy trees, and he sits himself down on it—hunching forward to sob into his hand. The gun weighs down the other, and his fingers fiddle lightly with the trigger, just itching to finally get this all over with.

“I’m so sorry!” Dean garbles, hoping that somehow, _some way_ —Bobby can hear him. He hopes that his parents can hear him, and Sammy too—and the impala, and _everyone_ and everything else he’s ever failed. He wants them all to really _hear_ his words, because he doesn’t plan on speaking any more after this.

The cold, steel barrel rises to press against his temple and Dean closes his eyes tight—sitting up straighter, trying to steady his shaking hand. The gun jabs into his skull— _he’s_ jabbing it into his skull, wanting to remember that _he’s_ the one doing this to himself. He’s hurting himself just like he’s hurt everyone else. This is his penance. This is the price he’s finally brave enough to pay..

He pulls back the hammer on the pistol— cocking it, bracing his body for the freeing sting of the bullet.

“Dean!”

Dean jumps so high, he almost drops the gun.

“Dean, what are you doing?” Castiel’s voice is booming from behind him, causing the stump to shake his bones to dust.

“No! Go away! _Please!_ ” Dean cries out—knowing that of _all the times_ for his hallucinations to start up again, _this_ is the worst. He jerks his head down and then presses the pistol back to his skull, not bothering to turn around because seeing that blurry manifestation of his insanity won’t do _a thing_ to change his mind.

“Dean … you don’t need to do this” Castiel pleads, several pitches lower, and it’s just soothing enough to make Dean cry even more.

“Yes— _I do!_ I got nothing! I got nothing left!”

“That’s not true—you have your life.”

The gun lowers slightly as Dean’s anger quickly begins to reign in his tears; and he’s no sooner leaping to his feet, spinning around to furiously stare Castiel in the face. “I’ve _never_ had a life! Not a real one! I’ve only ever had something to make me _miserable_ —to make _other people_ miserable! _Me living_ is way more dangerous than this gun! So I may as well do the world a fucking favor and just end it!”

The strange being wonders at him—looking smaller and more _normal_ than he ever has before. He almost looks like an average man, just standing there in the middle of the grass, bare skinned and open to the world; but there’s still moments where Dean can’t make sense of what he’s seeing—like he’s gone too long without blinking again, and his eyes are too dry to focus. Castiel soon glides closer, so fluid that it causes Dean to panic once again, knowing that such movement _can’t_ be humanly possible. “ _Dean_ …”

But Dean steps backwards with every advance made by the ghostly thing. “Stop! Okay—just stop!”

“Dean, you need to think about this.”

“I _have_ thought about it!” Dean hisses, finally feeling angry enough and fed up enough to bring the gun back to his head. “I have thought about it _too many_ times, I just finally have the guts to do it now!” His finger then wraps around the trigger, and he stares into those blue eyes one last time, watching them expand as his hand begins to clench down.

“ _Stop!_ ” Castiel screams.

The blue erupts into a cloud of white flash and haze.

_Dean fires._

***

 _Eyes open_ … he sees green. _Branches maybe?_ There’s blue sky above him, but it feels like there’s nothing below. _He’s floating._

Dean smiles.

_This must be what dying feels like._

***

It’s cold— _too cold._ He awakes in a snow bank, flurries billowing up upon his body—skin going numb, fingers turning blue.

_He thought hell would be warmer._

***

Water sloshes around his ears—the pressure makes them _pop_ , but then his head feels clogged again. Suddenly, the water is rushing into his mouth and down his throat, filling his lungs. He thrashes, feeling a sandy surface pressing back on his body—rocks, slimy coated weeds … bubbles dancing up and around his flailing limbs; but he can’t fight the current that’s pushing him down. Dean looks up and sees the sun trying to break through the surface of the water. He reaches for its rays, but the tips of his fingers feel nothing but the cold flow of the ocean.

His lungs cry out for air.

His throat burns and tightens closed.

The taste of salt shrivels his tongue behind his teeth.

 _This isn’t hell_ —and he knows this isn’t heaven. Dean wonders for a solitary moment before he slips back into sleep, what a person has to do in their life to deserve _this_.


	4. More

* * *

 

* * *

 

Something is tickling his nose, and he wakes up sneezing.

“ _Ugh!_ Wha—where am I?” he grunts, wiping at his face while sitting himself upright. The bright sun is just cresting the hillside, but the air is already warm; and it would feel really nice if he wasn’t so damn confused. With a grimace, Dean looks around to try to get his bearings, but all he sees are small orange flowers, spreading out for miles across the landscape. They look like poppies, and the rolling hills beneath them remind him of California—the one time drove up the western coast … but, he _can’t_ be there … _can he?_

Dean holds his breath, not sure if he should even _dare_ to think it … but _maybe … maybe this is heaven._

Yet memories of tall, tall trees and snow and salty water filling his mouth immediately follow the thought, making his head pound as he tries to sort it all out. “What happened?” he says louder now—shocked when he hears someone answer him.

“Oh good—you’re awake.”

He whirls around to see _Castiel_ —three times his usual size, sitting in the middle of the field. The being then leans forward and presses his palms into the ground, closing his eyes after another moment—looking like he’s turning all his focus to the earth. “Holy shit—you’re big!” Dean yelps, but his shock over Castiel’s hugeness is quickly set aside as he wonders at the color erupting behind the giant. _There_ , just beyond Castiel’s back, rushing towards the horizon like a wave across a beach—are infinitely _more_ orange flowers, growing and blooming before his very eyes. Soon, the entire countryside seems to be covered from end to end, replacing every inch of brown grass with candied gold petals unlike anything Dean has ever seen.

“How …?” he begins, but immediately forgets when Castiel hums.

The massive man then lifts his hands, wiping them together to knock off the clumps of dirt and earth— and then he _shrinks_ , melting into a much more comprehensible height; but Dean can’t say it eases his amazement any.

“You’ve been motionless for so long, I thought you’d remain like that forever.”

Dean’s mouth falls open, but as Castiel soars closer to face him, he finds that he has nothing to say.

“I am very glad that you’re alright. I honestly thought I was too late.”

“Too …” Dean breathes, still trying to figure out _what_ , if _any_ of this, is real, “ _too late?_ ”

“Yes” Castiel nods, smiling softly. “Thankfully, I _am_ faster than a bullet.”

“ _Wait_ …” A chilling realization begins to pinch at Dean’s skin. “You mean … I _didn’t_ die?”

Castiel’s smile only grows. “ _No_. I moved you out of the way.”

Dean gapes, finally standing to his feet. “But … but wait … I thought …”

“I knew it was risky, but I brought you back after we made contact the first time. There would be _no_ bringing you back if you had a hole in your head. I can mend a great deal in this world, but I wouldn’t be able to mend _that_.”

“I … I …” Dean stammers, suddenly feeling very weak, because he never expected to _live_. He didn’t _want_ to. That wasn’t the plan … he had no plan! He has nothing! That was the whole point! “Why didn’t you just let me die?” he finally gasps, feeling the guilt and tears build within him once more; and that causes his knees to give out, making him crumble back to the earth like a sand castle to the sea.

Castiel’s presence drifts closer, but Dean is too angry now too look up. “It is not within me to let things _cease_ to exist, Dean _. I exist_ to do exactly the opposite. Your life is just as important to me as the trees or the animals, or the very grass we’re resting on. If it is within my power to keep you breathing, then I will do _whatever_ I can to ensure that. How _you_ could want to anything different, is nothing short of insane.”

“Insa— _what?_ What the hell? _Seriously!_ Who gave you the fucking right?” Dean finally brings himself to look back at the being, feeling like the thing is more of a _monster_ now than a god or man, or _whatever_. “It’s _my_ life! It’s my life, and unlike a god damn _tree_ or fucking _raccoon_ or something, _I_ have a choice in what to do with it! I have a choice and I chose not to deal with it anymore!”

“That wasn’t a choice” Castiel growls lowly.

“ _Yes_ it fucking was! It _was_ a choice and it was _mine!_ _You_ took that away from me!”

“I gave you your choice back! Don’t you see that? You can live now—you can continue to _make_ choices and make your life into something to live for.”

“I have _nothing_ to live for! I don’t want to go on seeing people die! I can’t—I can’t!” Dean is shaking, feeling his head cloud with all the memories, flashing like a summer storm. The sounds of his family’s screams drown out his own. He needs it to stop—he has to make it stop!

Castiel stares at him, looking both frustrated and worried all at once, and it just makes Dean angrier.

With the last of his strength, he pulls himself back to his feet and takes a wobbly step towards the wavering shape, and then another—and Castiel slides backwards with every approach.

“Dean? What are you doing?”

Dean doesn’t answer, he just continues to move forward.

“ _Dean?_ ”

With one final lunge, Dean throws out his arms, attempting to grab Castiel and hold him for as long as he can manage—he needs this to end, and that blue eyed, electric cloud of color and light is better than any gun.

But just as he bites his tongue, waiting for the sharp stab of and snap in his muscles, all Dean feels is the ground clashing against his body, knocking the wind out of him. “No!” he gasps, crying into the dirt—clutching it in his fist. “Please!”

“Please? Please!” Castiel’s voice explodes from somewhere behind him, and it makes Dean jerk and flip over—heart racing with a new kind of dread. The being’s energy begins pulsating the air, making it quiver and crack with every clench of his jaw. “You will _not_ use _me_ to kill yourself!”

“I just want it to be over” Dean eventually whimpers, looking down at his own body on the ground—the pathetic mess that he is.

“ _Life_ is _never_ _over!_ ”

But just as Dean takes a breath to say something else, Castiel’s eyes darken, and the skies seem to darken too—the wind picks up and the poppies whip in the currents, causing many of those brand new petals to break from their stems and hurtle through the air, already browning at the edges as they pass Dean by. “Humans _love_ to think they’re so different, don’t they?” Castiel beats, sounding like a maxed out bass, amplified to _deafen_. “Just because you have this _language_ and _science_ and the ability to manipulate nearly everything around you—you think that _you should_. You feel _entitled_ and _powerful_ , like _you_ are somehow the gods you pray to! So you tear apart the world that’s literally _keeping you alive_ , and then you _complain_ when you make your own lives unlivable! Yet … instead of _fixing_ anything, instead of _learning_ from your mistakes, you either keep making things _worse,_ or you simply end it all! You claim to have more ability than an animal, Dean? _Well_ … an animal will still learn to _avoid_ a trap after the first time it gets caught in it! You’ve learned _nothing_ , and then you want to wail on and on about how _unfair_ everything is! You’ve already been given a second chance at life—yet you’re _squandering_ it! You’re squandering _everything!_ ”

Dean listens as the powerful creature erupts with fury—but he cowers when that fury causes Castiel to grow once more, larger and more looming than ever. He towers over Dean, with his eyes expanding quicker than the rest of him, and now—Castiel appears to be nothing more than two, hundred foot tall irises, ringing a set of deathly black pupils, staring daggers into Dean through the dust and gusting wind.

“I – I …” Dean wails, but those eyes flicker with snap of electricity, making him shut up and curl into a ball between the thrashing flowers. He covers his head with his hands and blocks out as much of the chaos above him as he can, just wanting the noise and the wind to _stop_. “I’m sorry!” he finally shrieks, not able to control sobs that follow; because even though he is terrifying and cruel, Castiel is _right_. Dean _is_ the one who made his life what it is—because he’s too stubborn and too full of pride to have listened to anyone with any common sense. The squalls pick up, and the whistling wind soon threatens to burst his ear drums. Dean curls into himself even tighter, shaking—scared that he might die, and too afraid to recognize all the irony in that “Please— _please_ , I’m sorry! Please!”

Somewhere in the distance, the sound of wood cracking echoes over the grass.

“Please!” Dean shrieks again, crying while feeling the dirt coat his face.

And just as he’s about to scream, all at once, the winds halt; and the flashes that were lighting up the air, darken—and when Dean finally hazards pulling his head from the ground to look around, he sees _Castiel_ —once more in his vaguely human form, sitting just a few feet away from him with his back turned and hunched over.

Dean stares, teeth still chattering from his fear, and he should probably run, but somehow he knows there’d be no point. Castiel could catch him if he wanted to— _plus_ , Dean doesn’t even know where the hell he is. So he gawks a little more, noticing how the being’s bare shoulders are trembling, and even though Dean can’t be sure, it seems like Castiel also scared _himself_ just now. “Are … are y- _you_ okay?” Dean whispers, voice rasped and creaky from all his sobs. He wipes the snot and dirt away on his shirt as he waits for Castiel to answer.

But Castiel only bows his head and shakes.

“Look … I’m sorry, okay? Y-you were right … I made all the wrong decisions and then … I was too stupid to learn from them. I’m … I’m a fuck up.” Dean’s unsteady legs manage to step just a little closer as he continues to speak. “And even though that’s the main reason why I wanted to … _ya know … end it,_ I—I shouldn’t have tried to use _you_ … or be upset at _you_ for doing your—your _job_ or whatever.”

“My _job_ ” Castiel repeats—sounding bitter and cold, and eventually becoming even smaller where he sits, until he’s almost the size of a young child. “My _job_ is to protect the earth—to keep it moving, and where sometimes that means I must set into motion a series of events that will ultimately _take_ life, it’s always so that more can start anew. It’s _never_ careless. It’s never _random_.” He sighs heavily before finally turning around, but he still doesn’t look at Dean, only down at the stems of the poppies, now _bare_ and _broken_. He touches one softly, and new, orange petals immediately bloom. “My anger … my outburst a moment ago, it _was_ random and careless, and _too many_ lives are now gone because of it.”

“Gone? What do you mean, _gone?_ ” Dean doesn’t understand—and he has a sickening feeling he doesn’t want to.

Castiel shakes his head again—and it causes misty tears to float from his eyes, flitting through the air, _over his cheeks_ …. catching the light—prisms of color tumbling down his face. “Tidal waves, earthquakes … mudslides. So many trees fell. So many animals, _dead_. A few humans are gone as well. The insects … _thousands of them_ …” His shape then fades, almost completely—leaving only a dim, red outline of where he used to be upon the grass.

Dean spins around; searching the rest of the field for where he’d gone, but he can’t see Castiel anywhere.

“ _This one_ —he’d already lost his mother to disease, but _I_ ended _his_ life. This was _my_ fault.”

Dean whirls back once more—finding Castiel standing directly behind him now, holding a small grey squirrel to his bare chest. Dean bends forward, wondering at the how the thing is being lifted—it’s as if it’s _in_ Castiel’s hands, but also floating just above them—and as Dean moves in closer to look, he can see tiny currents of electricity bouncing back and forth between Castiel’s fingers and the lifeless animal’s body—acting as a static, blue pillow for it to rest upon.

“I still don’t understand … _you’re saying,_ that all that craziness just now … with the wind and everything … _that_ caused … like, a disaster somewhere?”

Castiel’s eyes are still on the little animal, but he nods in response to Dean’s question.

And that makes Dean feel like he was punched in the gut. “And that … that disaster—it _killed people?_ ”

The other being finally snaps his gaze up, grimacing at Dean’s choice words. “People— _and trees, and animals, and insects. All of them_ were _alive_ only moments ago.”

“But … _no_. This _can’t_ be happening!” Dean hisses, still hoping for this to be some kind of bad dream, because he doesn’t want to be involved in the loss of even _more_ life. “This can’t … it can’t be real!”

“It is! This _is all_ real, Dean! How many times do I need to tell you that?” Castiel booms, and the wind picks up again because of it.

Which scares Dean enough for him to rush back once more and hold up his hands. “Woah—okay! I’m sorry, just … calm down, alright? Don’t get mad!”

Castiel’s shape instantly softens, but his eyes are still angry. “Yes … yes, I need to remain calm.” He then looks back at the squirrel and Dean follows his gaze—only, as soon as he looks down at it, the squirrel and Castiel are both _gone_. “Cas—?” Dean calls out, and the manlike form soon materializes to his left. _He’s back_ —but he’s returned without anything in his hands. “Where did you go?” Dean asks cautiously, feeling very nervous that he’ll say the wrong thing and set Castiel off again.

“I left to put the animal back near his mother’s remains, and then I spread more seeds over the disrupted land. I also directed many of the neighboring insects to the dead bodies—the sooner they start the process of breaking them down, the sooner the earth there can begin to mend.”

Dean swallows hard, not wanting to visualize that, but then he pauses, noticing the pain that’s wrecking Castiel’s face—a face that he can for once, see very clearly. It’s _all_ clear and _very_ , _very_ familiar, the pain—the regret. Dean has worn that same look for most of his life, and he wouldn’t wish it on anyone, not even a shapeshifting, electrical, weather spirit like Castiel. “It’s _my_ fault …” he finally whispers, knowing that it’s the truth, “it wouldn’t have happened if I wasn’t … trying to … I was pissing you off. I’m so sorry … _for everything._ I never wanted any of _this to happen_. I didn’t think—”

To his surprise, Castiel nods, eventually looking at him without another hint of anger. “I know you didn’t, Dean. But I can’t blame _you_ for this. You are not the first human to infuriate me—it happens _constantly_ ; but I can normally control myself. Your kind are always destroying this planet, poisoning it and not caring in the least that you’re slowly killing yourselves. I am almost always angry with you humans, but I am still able to keep the balance. Yet, this time … _I didn’t_. I should have had better sense, _but I didn’t_ … I will … I will have to live with that— _forever_.”

“I will too” Dean mutters, not feeling any less accountable; and without thinking—he reaches out and puts his hand on Castiel’s shoulder, a gesture of reassurance—only realizing the second those blue arcs begin to spark that he just did something extremely stupid.

“Dean!” Castiel yelps, and the earth rumbles once more.

But this time, it doesn’t actually startle him—and that stinging ache he’s expecting to feel, doesn’t come.

Nothing comes. _Nothing happens._

“Dean?” Castiel repeats, more quietly this time—and his gaze has moved from Dean’s face, to where his hand is bringing them together.

The electricity is tangible; Dean can tell that much … but it doesn’t hurt. All it does is whirr from Castiel’s body to his own, dancing back and forth from skin to palm.

“How?” Castiel asks, lips dangling open with the word.

“I … I don’t know” Dean mutters, stepping in closer to watch the currents arc.

“It doesn’t hurt you?” Castiel asks, even more quietly now.

“No … not this time.”

“But … it … it should!”

“I know.”

“But … you’re a living thing. You should be—” his words cut short, and that makes Dean finally tear his eyes away.

“What?” Dean wonders, narrowing his gaze on the pale shock that’s now plaguing Castiel’s face.

“I thought …” the being begins, and suddenly, the world is a blur around them—eventually clearing into a familiar grassy pasture, with shaggy trees in a long row just behind them. All the poppies are gone. The rolling hills are gone. The easy warmth in the air is gone. All Dean sees now is the sight of the Impala, still with her hood up, and the long stretch of untraveled road laying out in front of her. “Wait …” Dean mutters, turning around because he’s starting to catch on to what Castiel might be thinking.

“No” Castiel gasps, and then he’s off—gliding over the grass and past the first line of trees. “No!” he yells out again, and the ache in his voice makes Dean follow him.

When he finally catches up, he matches Castiel’s gaze, looking down to eventually meet the crumpled lump of his own body. Half of his face is gone and the other half is covered in a thick coat of blood.

“No …” Castiel whimpers again, shrinking and shrinking until he’s the size of a browned leaf, fluttering dryly to the ground.

“I’m dead” Dean says flatly. _Cold_. A fact that somehow, he’s only just now realized he’s known all along. “I’m dead” he says again, turning to look at the tiny shape of Castiel.

“No! I saved you!” the other counters, a desperate plea that they both know doesn’t change a thing.

“I’m dead” Dean repeats for a third time, feeling like that is what it will take for everyone to accept it. “I’m dead … but I’m here.” He’s trying to work it all out now. There’s a new calm that’s filling him, a calm that comes with sense. The sense of relief. The sense of understanding. The sense that this is all finally _making sense_ for once. It’s a realization that actually makes him want to smile. “So … does that make me a ghost?” he asks out loud, but not to anyone in particular. He doesn’t expect Castiel to have an answer for that one. Ghosts and spirits—that’s all too _other worldly,_ and Castiel has made it abundantly clear that he is all about _this_ world.

“I … I don’t know what you are” the small figure says softly, but his voice is cracking as he stares out across Dean’s lifeless body.

“I guess I have to be a ghost, right? I mean—I still look like me and—”

“No you don’t” Castiel mutters, and suddenly, he’s his regular size again.

“What?”

The other creature gestures to where Dean is standing, waving his hazy arm up and down to get the man to look at himself. When Dean does—he yelps.

“What the fuck!” he gasps, clamoring back as he looks across his now glowing skin; he soon stumbles and falls to the ground, but instead of hitting it with a _thud_ , he feels his body break apart, apart into a trillion tiny pieces, bursting upon the dirt like cloud of mist.

Color and cold coat every, tiny piece of him, and then his body feels wet—like he’s once again underwater. Dean looks around, noting the sloshing grey and blue, the seaweed, the fish.

He closes his eyes. An arid heat begins to fill his nose. He opens again to see sand, whipping around him in a spiral, piling up over his head only to blind him once again.

“Dean!”

Castiel’s voice is loud, yet it sounds so far away, and it only confuses Dean more. It makes him panic and flail; and with every thrash, he feels his outstretched body clash against ice and rock, and snow and water. Wood snaps beneath his weight. Fiery heat smashes against icy cold and it shocks him, harder and more violently than any lighting could. And when he’s finally able to open his eyes once more and look at where he is now, all he sees is miles and miles between him and the earth. Clouds float carelessly below him, and the stars buzz loudly behind him; and a new, paralyzing fear snakes through his existence unlike anything ever has before.

_Dean screams._

“It’s alright.”

The cold calms.

“It’s okay, Dean.”

The waters recede.

“You’re okay.”

His body slowly comes together once again. Skin collects from scattered bits and fragments, into something that is finally recognizable. Breath begins to fill his lungs, although—the sensation still seems much larger than it ever did before. As if the only thing keeping it all in perspective, is the memory of how it _used_ to be; because when he tries to gather up the _actual_ feeling in his mind, what it is to take in breath and use it, to push it out again, to release this tension—it feels like he is bursting with every speck of the ozone, and exploding with enough energy to render the planet to dust.

“Do you see that leaf, Dean? The red one, just to the right there? Focus on that. Look at every line. Memorize its shape. Focus on the curves, the color.”

Dean tries, and the more he stares, the less his body seems to hum.

“Good …” Castiel rumbles, and that’s when Dean finally realizes just how close the rumbling is.

It’s vibrating just beneath his cheek, under the palm of his hand, against his shoulder.

A soft, feather light touch grazes of his other shoulder, and as Dean finally stills himself enough to look around, he sees the tan span of Castiel’s chest—his arms, wrapping around Dean. He feels the being’s chin on the top of his head. He’s holding him. Rocking him gently back and forth.

Keeping him calm.

Keeping him together.

A part of Dean wants to move away, but the rest of him doesn’t want to move at all—finding the closeness welcoming and familiar. “What am I?” he finally manages to ask, feeling his throat close around the words.

Once again, Castiel’s deep, soothing voice thunders to life beneath him.

“You … you are like _me_.”

***

“So … I can control the weather?”

“Maybe. We have yet to see what you can do.”

“But, if I’m like you, then I must be able to do the things that you can do.”

Castiel smiles, a soft, gentle smile. His face is sharp and angular, but still—just as kind as Dean thought it was. “Yes, maybe. However, I thought I was the only one like me, and I may still be the only one like me. Yet, you are somehow similar to me in that, you are everywhere all at once. You have some sort of connection with the earth; but what that connection is, I don’t know.”

“Do you ever feel like you’re drowning?”

The question is an odd one and it obviously catches Castiel off guard. They’re back in the poppy field, and Dean has noticed that the poppies can somehow sense nearly all of Castiel’s emotions, and the pedals spread out wider with the widening of the his eyes. “What? _No_. I have witnessed creatures drown, and it does not seem pleasant; but I myself, cannot drown because I don’t actually breathe.”

Dean looks away, feeling even more confused now. “I think I still do.”

“You breathe?”

Dean turns back and Castiel’s eyes are even wider, and so are the poppies—in full bloom, orange gold covering the world. “Yeah, I think so. And …” he pauses a moment, trying to figure out how he can explain this, “before I woke up here, I thought I was in the ocean. I felt like I was drowning. And I also felt like I was in the snow … a couple other places too.”

“So … you were with me then?” Castiel asks, sounding more and more intrigued by the second.

“With you where?”

“After I saved you—or, _thought_ I saved you, I took you here, but I was also tending to a volcano on the ocean floor, as well as tempering a storm atop what the humans call,  the Andes.” Castiel blinks several times, and then looks around. “So, we’re connected. Somehow—we’re connected.”

Dean gapes a moment. “But—that doesn’t make sense, because … like, you’re here, and I’m here. And you are still doing all your weather crap, aren’t you?”

Castiel smirks but nods.

“Okay, so I don’t really know what you’re doing with all that, like … I know I’m not with you right this very second on the ocean floor; so how are we connected?”

“I don’t know.”

“And how am I seeing all of you right now if you’re still everywhere else. Like—I really see you. Before, it always seemed like part of you was missing.”

“I do have a concentration of self.”

“What does that even mean?” Dean asks with a laugh. He really wishes Castiel would stop saying things like Dean is supposed to understand them.

“I mean, I have places where I am _most_ present. I suppose you could say that this is where my _head_ is, even while my limbs are stretched out everywhere else, controlling things.”

“Then why don’t you look like just a head?” Dean chuckles, eyes moving down from Castiel’s face, across his bare chest, blushing when he dares to look any lower.

“I think your mind gives me a form in order for you to make sense of me.”

“So what do I look like to you, then? If I’m like you, then my head is here but apparently, I’m stretched out everywhere else too? I don’t feel like I am.”

Castiel shrugs, and Dean wonders a moment if he being is actually shrugging, or if he’s just projecting that action onto him. _This is so confusing._ “Well, first of all—you don’t _have_ to be spread out. If you’re like me, you could be all in one place; which is what I believe is the case right now. Your body’s reaction is to stay collected. Mine was too right before the world flew into the sun’s orbit. But then life began to form and I formed with it. I am connected to every growing life on this planet, Dean; and that’s also why I think that we’re somehow very different. Right now, I feel the existence of every tree and animal, and squirming piece of bacterium on this planet. I always have been able to sense it all; but I don’t think you do. Whatever your connection to this world is—it seems to be looser than my own.” Castiel turns and stares at one of the poppies. “When you were fell back in the pasture and I had to calm you down … I could see you expanding. I could see you reaching out across the world. You were vast, just like I was, but in a different way. You didn’t penetrate the air like I do. You stayed on the surface of things. You didn’t filter down to the molecules. You were more like … like water, flooding out and splashing across the world. You were able to spread out and you are able to reabsorb in an instant. It was rather astounding.”

“Really?”

Castiel nods. “Yes. It was unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Once I calmed you down, you gathered back into one piece. I didn’t sense you anywhere but right there in front of me. Right there in my grasp.”

Dean blushes even harder now. “Uh … yeah. Thanks … ya know—for that … for calming me down.”

“Of course.” Castiel smiles at him, and the pedals on the poppies brighten. “As for what you look like—well, you look how you always have. You look human; which is why your demise came as such a shock to me. Nothing about you seems any different than it ever has been. I am honestly just as confused as you are by this whole situation.”

 

They sat in silence for some time, both just thinking—although, Dean’s sure that Castiel was also doing a million other things as well, in order to keep the world turning. He’s probably creating a warm front in the northwest right now, and sending an ice storm over the highest points in Canada. He’s everywhere, and always has been. He’s been there with every raindrop and every snowflake for as long as Dean’s been alive … as long as _life_ has existed; and with that thought, Dean remembers something.

“So, before … you mentioned something about seeing me when I was younger; so, just how long have you known about me? Like … known that I was one of the ones who could see you?”

Castiel hums and all the orange flowers around him, shiver. “Since the morning after the fire took your family.”

“What?” Dean chokes. “How?”

“Well, as I told you before, that old oak tree was worried, so I checked on you—or, more, I sensed that you were still alive.” Then, with a deep breath—that Dean is _sure_ he must be imagining now, Castiel turns to him and smiles. “I filled up that hospital, I scanned every living thing in there—no one noticed me, which was not surprising in the least; but what _was_ surprising was one little boy. He was crying. I felt his pain because all his tears were actually changing the moisture in the air. I filtered into his hospital room, and all of a sudden, his cries stopped and he looked up and around, as if he knew someone was there with him. And that is when I focused in on your energy, Dean … and that was the first time you actually _saw_ me. I feel it was only for a moment, like a shadow in the corner of your eye, but I knew that you saw me. I knew that you were one of the few who could.”

Dean is speechless. He remembers that moment … of all the horrible moments that came that following morning, there was that one—that one solitary minute that he _didn’t_ feel like he was completely alone and lost in the world; but for the life of him, he never understood why … until now. “That was you?”

“Yes.” Castiel’s smile grows wider. The poppies stand taller. “And it was me a few years later—I saw you hiding in the bushes behind that red brick building.”

“That was the orphanage.”

“And I was there when you fell out of the window of that house … directly onto that anthill.” Castiel’s smile suddenly drops. “You killed so many ants that night, Dean. It was awful.”

Dean’s shoulders hunch up, either from guilt, or from that unfortunate memory clamoring back into his mind. “Sorry …” he mutters, feeling like things are crawling all over him again. “I had to get away from my girlfriend’s dad … he sorta … he sorta caught me trying to take her bra off.”

“Bra?” Castiel’s brow furrows. “What is that and why were you taking it off of someone?”

“Well … it’s uh … um” Dean chuckles. “Uh … never mind.” There’s no way he’s going to get into a _birds and bees_ talk with someone who can actually talk to the birds and bees.

Castiel doesn't seem too caught up on the specifics though because once Dean is finally finished muttering and turning cherry red, Castiel is already drifting off,  fading slightly around the edges while lost in thought. "I somehow knew that you were different than the others ... I could sense it. I just suppose I didn't know _how different_  you were until now."

Dean tilts his head in confusion. "What do you mean?"

With a soft smile,  Castiel closes his eyes.  "Every time..." he whispers,  almost reverently, as if this is something he's cherished for a long while, "every time you saw me,  you'd pause.  You'd look around ... and then,  you'd stare directly into me. You'd stare like you could see every detail that made me up.  No matter where I was centered,  or how high I was above you—your eyes tracked me down in an instant."

Dean's mouth hangs open but he doesn't know what to say. 

"It was nice" Castiel continues, so gently, his words could be mistaken for the breeze.  "Whenever you looked at me that way,  I felt—"

"Like you weren't alone?"

The other opens those deep,  blue eyes once more; but this time,  they seem warm, familiar ... full of hope. Castiel nods.

"I get that" Dean smiles,  absent mindedly leaning closer to Castiel's side. 

Several silent beats pass them by before either can bring themselves to say anything else. 

“So … " Dean eventually jumps in while clearing his throat,  feeling a little awkward  now with all this quiet "why do you think I can see you, like— _completely_ see you, now? Why not when I was younger?”

The blue eyed being doesn’t say anything at first—just bites his lip and tilts his head towards the sky. “Perhaps …” he begins after a long moment, “perhaps when someone feels like they don’t have anything else in their life to focus on, they are finally able to focus on the shadows.”

***

Weeks passed, and _Dean_ became the shadow—Castiel’s shadow, following him everywhere, experiencing the side of existence that he was always blind to.

 

“Do you want to go inside?”

“What?” Dean had to yell because the winds were so loud.

Castiel is standing in the middle of a field, yanking a tendril of clouds down from the sky. “Do you want to go inside the tornado?”

For a second, Dean hesitates—still defaulting to that human-disbelief that any of this could be real, but after all that he’s seen, after all that he’s experienced recently—taking a spin inside of a tornado is probably one of the more _normal_ things he could do. “Will it hurt?”

“Can _anything_ hurt you?” Castiel asks with a laugh.

Dean shrugs—because, he isn’t really sure of that yet. He knows that he can still feel pain like he used to, but it usually only happens when he forgets that he’s no longer what he used to be. In all his travels with Castiel, he has stumbled into many situations that probably would have _killed_ him in his human form. He’s fallen off of cliffs and felt the crashing waves of a tsunami; and even stood in the middle of a lava flow. And although all that caused him pain, he was never actually _hurt_ when it was said and done _._ The feelings he had were always more akin to an _empathetic_ pain, and he can almost always control it if he focuses in on the fact that he’s now … a very different kind of being. He’s now … _supernatural_. “I don’t know, man …”

Castiel reaches up above his head once more and gives the storm one final heave, eventually spinning around in a circle to set the tornado into motion. “Why not? You once told me how interested you were in storms, Dean. Why not take a closer look?”

He still wasn’t sure, but Castiel apparently was—and before Dean could react, he was getting sucked in by the spiraling torrents of wind. “Holy shiiit!” he screams, flailing wildly as he feels his body start to glow. It’s obvious when it happens now—when he’s starting to come apart by the atoms, or _whatever_ it is that he’s made up of. It’s like a warmth exploding inside of his chest, and then his entire body begins to tingle, like it did when his arm used to fall asleep and he’d have to shake it out to regain any feeling. It’s _that_ , only multiplied by a thousand—and as the tornado lifts him higher and higher into the air, more and more of him comes apart in the gusts, until he is spread out like debris throughout the cyclone, seeing it from every angle. Feeling every wisp and wave of the wind. “Cas!” he screeches, but his voice is muted, dimmed by the vastness of his self.

And then is stabs him—like a knife in his gut, and he instantly retracts back into one dense, leaded ball, plummeting to the earth like a meteor.

“Dean!” Cas’s voice sounds as if it’s echoing through a tin can, drowned out by a deafening _thump thump—thump thump._

Then the thumping begins to slow.

_Thump … thump._

“Dean?”

Dean opens his eyes and uncurls his body, spreading out his arms to let go of what he’s clutching—what he didn’t even _realize_ he was holding onto in the first place.

“Dean … what … what did you do?”

Dean looks up and into Castiel’s eyes. They seem sad, _worried_ —and that’s when he finally looks back down to the ground and sees the motionless body of a bird, _a magpie._ Its white-capped wings, splayed out at its side. Its yellow beak, opening and closing—eyes wide, unblinking. “I– I don’t know.”

“Did it fly into the storm?”

“I don’t know! I … I think so.”

Castiel frowns and all the clouds above their heads rumble and darken. “It’s dying, Dean” he says after a moment, staring at the bird with water rimming his eyes.

“No …”

“Yes. I hear its heart slowing.”

But something inside of Dean knows Castiel is wrong. “No” he repeats, slowly reaching down to pick up the bird once more.

“Dean, don’t!” Castiel warns—just like he always had; worried that if Dean _is_ like him, then touching a living creature would only do them harm; but Dean isn’t worried.

In fact, he felt indescribably _calm_ , knowing that if he holds this animal, if he cradles it in his arms—somehow, that will help.

The bird’s wild eyes dart around frantically, and Dean can sense that it’s confused, scared … it’s small body wants to give up from the shock, but he can’t bear to let it. “Shh it’s alright, little girl” he says, stroking the feathers on the bird’s head.

Castiel just gawks in amazement, and for a moment—the sun peeks through the clouds.

Dean continues to stroke his fingers over the bird’s dark black wings, feeling a warmth pass through his hand and down into the tiny, trembling body.

“Dean … how are you—how are you doing tha—?” Castiel is speechless, and that in itself is a wonder.

Dean smiles. “I don’t know … but she’s calming down now.”

“She’s … she’s not … _dying?_ ” Castiel asks, bending in closer to watch in amazement. The storm altogether breaks across the sky, and the tornado dissipates in the distance.

“No. She’s not dying” Dean whispers happily, knowing in the deepest part of him that it’s true. Somehow he understands now that if that bird had stayed in that tornado—it would have only lasted a minute. And he also has come to understand, that as soon as he felt that tiny life enter the storm, he _had_ to protect it. It's what he wishes he could have done with his family, with Bobby ... with everyone he's ever loved, but he was simply too weak back then. But _now_ , now he is more. Somewhere within the depths of Dean’s soul, he knows it isn’t this bird’s time to die, and he is finally strong enough to do something about it. “I think this is what I’m meant to do, Cas” he says after the magpie’s eyes flutter closed and it falls into an exhausted sleep. “I think … I think I’m supposed to protect life from things it can’t control. I think I’m supposed to—”

“Relieve its pain?”

Dean grins, nodding as he turns back to stare into that kind, magnanimous face. “Yeah … can you imagine that? _Me_ … actually taking pain _away_.” He laughs and then turns his head back to the bird, finally setting it onto the ground and gently folding in its wings so it can rest.

“ _Yes_. I can.”

“Hm?” Dean asks, pulling himself back to his feet but still looking down on the peaceful little creature.

“I _can_ imagine it, Dean.” Castiel puts out his hand and twines their fingers together, sending soft shocks throughout every speck of Dean’s body, lighting him up from the inside out, and he feels his skin begin to glow.

“Cas …”

“You’re the balance, Dean. You feel so deeply … _you always have_. You feel what life truly is, in all its pain and all its wonder. I keep life _moving_ , but you keep life _living. That_ is why you’re here … to restore order to my chaos.”

He watches him—watches Castiel’s sweet, sad smile grow across his face, and all at once, Dean can hear exactly what he’s thinking. “You aren’t chaotic, Cas … you said it yourself. You sometimes need to end life in order for the world to mend. Life and death … that’s just part of the cycle.”

The other being shakes his head and looks away; and Dean can see some more lightning crack on the horizon. “That bird nearly died because of my storm; but _you_ saved it. You are the good that I need … that I have _always_ needed.”

“And you are the green in the grass.”

Those blue eyes shiver, but finally focus in on Dean once more. “What?”

“You are all the color in the flowers, and the warmth in the sunrise. _Hell_ , Cas! You’re the happiness on a snow day and the reason a kid can build a sand castle! Castiel … _you_ _are_ this world! You keep every new day coming when a horrible one ends. Life has a limit, we all know that—whether it comes from a storm, or a person killing another person. Disease, a freak accident … _whatever_ , but the clock always restarts because of _you_.” Dean does his best to squeeze Castiel’s fingers, but in a way, it feels like he’s trying to hold onto a tidal wave. It’s all _power_ and _movement_ , crashing into the very palm of his hand. “I can maybe ease something’s pain—like I did with that bird just now; but _you_ … you are the reason that bird exists. Castiel … you _are life._ ” He steps in closer, feeling their energies pull together like magnets.

Forces keeping them close.

That dark head shakes, still disbelieving.

“Do you know why I see you the way I do?” Dean finally says, leaning in close, closer than he ever had before, watching galaxies form in Castiel’s eyes. “Because as a child, I tried to imagine the _perfect person_ … the one living creature in all this world who could be strong enough to make everything okay again. Someone who could be so powerful and good. Someone like _God_ … someone I could have faith in. Someone who would never leave me … and I pictured _you_.”

The wind picks up and curls around them—warm like a blanket. It wraps them together, energies mixing. Light bursting.

Currents whirling through their beings—polarities balancing the other out.

Dean is _glowing._

Castiel is glowing, and it make the air spark around their heads.

Their lips come together.

The sky burns red.

***

It’s been a long day and Lynn isn’t sure how many more of these she can take.

Her back hurts, her neck hurt – _her heart hurts._ Too many people came through that diner door and none of them seemed to have a smile on their face. Sometimes, she wonders if she’s ever actually _seen_ a real smile before, or if she’s only every imagined them.

With a sigh, she takes off her apron and hangs it up on the hook on the wall, grabbing the set of door keys off the other hook at the same time. “Let’s go home” she whispers to the empty room, wincing as she hobbles around the counter.

The moon is bright and shining through the dusty windows, lighting up the black and white tiles below her feet like a runway, guiding her back to the front door.

The rusty hinges squeak as she pulls at the handle.

The moonlight floods across her face.

The smell of roses bloom beneath her nose, and the sound of those keys falling to the floor, marries with the sound of her gasp.

Peonies and daffodils. Tulips and lilies—and of course, miles and miles of primroses spread out as far as she can see. _Colors_ of every shade, shine brighter than the moon and dance in the breeze, waving back and forth at that old, tired woman in the doorway.

“She looks happy” Castiel whispers, peeking through the flowers as Lynn clutches her heart and smiles up at the heavens with tears streaming down her face.

Dean smiles too. “Yeah … she is. She finally is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I have no idea if this actually turned out any good. This was probably the toughest fic I have ever tried to write and I have no idea why. In any event, I hope you enjoyed it; and I hope that it wasn't too confusing in the end. Thank you all for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> For completed Destiel and Cockles works, check out the rest of my Ao3.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr at [Castiel-Left-His-Mark-On-Me](http://castiel-left-his-mark-on-me.tumblr.com)


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